


Fictober 2018

by DredPirateBones



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fictober, Haven't Written In A Year, M/M, Magic, Okami Hanzo Shimada, Purgatory, Time Travel, Trains, Vampire Hanzo Shimada, Violence, Werewolf Jesse McCree, Young Hanzo Shimada, Young Jesse McCree, Zombie McCree, not beta read we die like real men, there is a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-24 12:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 30,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16174706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DredPirateBones/pseuds/DredPirateBones
Summary: Chapter 1: Van Helsing-ish AU with tattoo (?) artist Hanzo and Hunter McCreeChapter 2: When McCree was 16, he sold his soulChapter 3: Dead bois on a trainChapter 4: Vampire McCreeChapter 5: WereCree and Demon HanzoChapter 6: Hanzo likes to break and enterChapter 7: Gravedigger McCree and Supernatural HanzoChapter 8: McCree meets DollChapter 9: Okami HanzoChapter 10: Hanzo jumps dimensionsChapter 11: Zombie McCree and cursed plague carrier HanzoChapter 12: Werecree and Vampire HanzoChapter 13: Tiefling McCree and Drow HanzoChapter 14: McCree and Doll meet Hanzo and GenjiChapter 15: More dimension/time jumping HanzoChapter 16: More Zombie McCree and Cursed Plague Carrier HanzoChapter 17: Werecree and WolfzoChapter 18: Forest Spirit McCreeChapter 19: Young McHanzo. Both boys are thugs (?) Street rats (?)Chapter 20: Witchy Gabriel





	1. The Hunter's Workshop

**Author's Note:**

> 'Helsing' is used like 'Agent'

The needle of the tattoo gun had kissed McCree’s skin thousands of times before and it would do so a thousands times again. Hanzo wiped off the excess ink before curling over McCree’s back. He squinted at the ink, turned his head this way and that as he criticized his work.

“How’s it look?” McCree asked.

“How does it feel?”

“Feels like a tattoo.”

“Hnn.” Hanzo touched the needle to his back again; connecting the thin lines of the bull’s skull to the thicker outline of the crossed crossbows. The ink shimmered with the magic Hanzo painstakingly put into it before fading to black.

Around them, the Hunter’s Workshop was a beehive of activity. If not for the runes carved into the stone wall at Hanzo’s back, he wouldn’t be able to hear McCree speak without the man shouting. From the corner of his eye, Hanzo caught Helsing Amari shoulder a new weapon her mother invented.

Something exploded.

Hanzo’s hand stayed steady; McCree stayed still. The thrum of magic around them had built until it was a physical thing. Their corner of the Workshop was sweltering; a thin sheen of sweat covered McCree’s naked back and stuck his hair to the nape of his neck. Hanzo had stripped down to his fine cotton undershirt in a futile bid to alleviate the heat.

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. McCree’s new _Warfêt_ was nearly finished. The skull of the Longhorn sat front and center across his shoulder blades, each horn curling up and around to end just above his collar bones, with the crossbows acting as a frame for the bottom of the skull.

A giant arrow bolt suddenly imbedded itself into the wall, five feet from them. Hanzo, quick as the lightning of his own _Warfêt_ , whipped around and glared. Across the room, Helsing Oxton had her hands over her mouth; an empty wind lance sitting innocently beside her. Engineer Lindholm didn’t appear to have noticed his war machine had fired--to engrossed in its guts was he.

“One of these days.” McCree muttered.

“Indeed.” Hanzo reached over to the cabinets by the wall and took a diamond flask off the shelves. “Ready?”

“Reckon so.” McCree took the offered flask and knocked the potion back. Like a kick to the diaphragm, his breath was immediately struck from his lungs. He slumped over the back of the chair with a pained wheeze. Hanzo dipped the needle into the inkwell before leaning forward and setting it to McCree’s skin.

As quickly as he could, Hanzo carefully colored and detailed the bull’s right eye. The ink from the gun came out blue as he threaded and weaved his magic into it, only to fade to yellow to orange to red. He worked from the center, out; light to dark. McCree fought for each breath as the magic crescendoed and then crashed down with enough force to claw its way into his body. Hanzo fought to ignore the pained wheezing and heaving of McCree’s broad shoulders.

Inch by painful inch, Hanzo added depth and highlights until the eye seemed like a portal to Hell. He dipped the needle into the ink one last time and lined the eye socked in gilded gold. The left was deliberately left untouched: Bull’s Eye Dead Eye.

 

* * *

 

 

McCree crowded Hanzo against the wall, hungry mouth pressed to the strong line of his throat. His back ached and felt stiff but it was a type of pain he was used to; it was not the first _Warfêt_ that Hanzo had given him. No, the first had been some 10 years ago, back when McCree was young enough and dumb enough to think he could handle the magical surge. Hanzo had been young enough, dumb enough, and arrogant enough to do it; confident in the title of ‘prodigy.’

McCree dragged teeth and tongue up, up, and up Hanzo’s neck; sucking on his ear lobe before giving it a small tug. The hands on his ass squeezed and pulled his hips forward just as Hanzo pushed his own hips out to meet him.

The first _Warfêt_ had been the skull on McCree’s forearm. The magic of it gave him unparalleled strength, able to claw castle gates off their hinges--but only in that arm. The sudden surge had put them both in a sick bed for a week afterwards.

Hanzo’s fingers tangled through McCree’s hair to tug his head up and then there was a tongue licking its way past his teeth, hot and demanding. McCree let his jaw go slack, let Hanzo do what he wanted, let himself ride the push and pull like the ocean obeyed the moon. McCree put a hand up his shirt to grip at the scarred skin of Hanzo’s ribs, thumb tracing the marks. In retaliation, Hanzo shoved his hand down the back of McCree’s pants; long fingers trailing down and in until they rested against his entrance.

McCree groaned low in his throat, sucking on the tongue in his mouth when it tried to pull away. And then there was a sudden, blazing, pain in his back. McCree jerked back with a yelping hiss, stumbling several steps back.

“Apologies!” Hanzo’s hand still hovered in the air where he’d gripped at McCree’s back.

“God _damn_!” McCree rolled his shoulders to try to banish the feeling.

“Are you alright?” Hanzo let his hands drop back to his sides. McCree winced as he arched his spine, shoulders back, chest pushed forward and then let his shoulders curl forward as he hunched in on himself. He did it several times--forcing the ink to move; forcing the magic to relax like a tense muscle--before, slowly, the pain faded to a dull, miserable, ache.

“Yeah, I’m alright, darlin’.” He said. Hanzo stepped forward until he was in McCree’s space again and then gently laid his hand on his chest, fingertips resting just under his collar bones. The tips of the Longhorn's horns were a deep brownish black.

“How does it feel?” Hanzo asked. McCree smirked and kissed him again, open mouthed but slow; a calming down instead of a ramping up.

“It feels like a tattoo.”


	2. For What A Soul Is Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, the devil didn't go down to Georgia and he wasn't lookin' for no soul to steal.

At 16, he sold his soul to the Devil for power that, even now, he didn’t fully understand.

Deadeye had saved his ass more times than he cared to count. Seeing--hearing--the dead was a special type of torture in and of itself, if only because the one man he _knew_ was dead and gone, was the one man he hasn’t seen. The Hellhound at his feet, black leathery body letting off whiffs of smoke, exposed ribs backlit by the fire in it’s soul, sat docile and content. His good girl, his partner in crime, his Doll.

Down on the streets below, Día de los Muertos was in full swing. From his place by the window, McCree watched the dead as they dove and weaved through the crowd; blending in with the living. _There_ , helping an old man was La Calavera Catrina: the Grand Dame of Death; draped in a long dress with marigolds pinned to her hat. Fart flowers, his grandmother used to call them because they smelled so bad. _There_ , a child--newly dead--racing after the other children in a game of tag. McCree blew a cloud of smoke and wondered at the irony. Death on the heels of the living.

But there was no sign of the man he wanted to see; the man he was there for. They'd made a pact to meet today and McCree would be damned if he didn't hold up his end of it. If Hanzo didn't hold up his end, well, then McCree would just have to hunt him down and kick his ass.

Doll sighed and leaned against McCree. Her chest was level with his belt; her sudden weight forced him to widen his stance or risk being pushed over. Together, they watched the souls below for some time. Every now and then, he would open his mouth to let a thick cloud of smoke seep from between his teeth, watching it float up to the ceiling in that hypnotic way that smoke had.

“Jesse McCree.” _Speak of the Devil_. McCree’s eyes flicked to the reflection in the window. There he stood, fallen or not, Lucier was still beautiful. McCree tried not to look directly at him. It hurt, like looking at the sun just to see how long it would take to go blind. Doll started growling, fire leapt to lick at her charred ribs and up her flanks. The red of her eyes burned blue as she stepped between them. McCree felt a surge of affection in his chest. Doll may have belonged to the Morning Star first but she was McCree’s now, and she would protect him against all else. Even from the things he could not be protected from.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” McCree asked. In the reflection, he watched as Lucifer took a soul--brilliant in the dark and shining with the pinks, purple-blues, and yellows of a desert sunrise--out of his pocket. McCree whirled around, eyes locked onto his own soul. Doll took a threatening step forward, molten saliva dripped from her hairless jowls while the scales on her neck flared.

“I have come to make a deal with you. Deliver a favor unto me and I’ll give you your soul back.” McCree swallowed hard. He suddenly felt cold, his heart was in his throat, and his stomach had dropped down somewhere near his feet. Even at 16, McCree had been clever enough--carefully enough--to give only his soul; not his will or his body or his mind. He’d been clever enough to outwit the Devil. If he wanted McCree to do his bidding, then a new deal had to be struck. Every single time.

But what sort of favor would the Morning Star need?  What was beyond his reach yet not beyond McCree’s? Heaven, he supposed. But with his soul sitting in Lucifer’s hand, McCree was forced to amend the thought. No, the Pearly Gates wouldn’t be opening for him anytime soon.

But if he had it back....

The noise swelled outside his window. He could hear people laughing, could distinguish the full brightness of the living and the sheer miserable joy of the dead; who knew that this night was all they had until next year. The living may have already let them go, let them fade into a fond memory that time distorted until they couldn’t tell it was a passed beloved even when they stood face to face. But the dead clung so hard and so desperately.

....If he had it back than he wouldn’t be this strange immortal thing anymore, that aged and yet didn’t; stranded between one world and the next. McCree’s eyes fell to the floor. He would lose Doll, the one companion he’d had these past 300 years. His loyal, sweet, girl. He wouldn’t be able to see his Oni anymore. His beautiful, strong-willed, lover.

“I....I refuse.” McCree said.

“Excuse me?” Lucifer’s voice dropped to a dangerous snarl. McCree forced himself to meet those golden eyes despite the burning pain it brought.

“Keep it.”


	3. Train Tracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is there to do in purgatory but sit and think awhile?

The train car rattled and swayed on the tracks. Rain speckled the window pane and got drug in horizontal lines by the wind. McCree curled his fingers around his cup of coffee, trying to leech the warmth from it when the door opened and a man of Asian decent stepped into the car. The door closed behind him without being touched. McCree tried not to feel uneasy; still unaccustomed to the way the liminal space reacted.

The man seemed confused, eyes sweeping the car from right to left, up then down; taking everything in--no, McCree realised, he was counting heads, windows, checking escape routes, calculating distances. It was a look he recognized because he used to do the exact same thing.

McCree averted his eyes and took a drink. Across the aisle, a high schooler slept slumped along the purple upholstery, headphones the size of earmuffs, and shoes untied.

“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” The man said, suddenly standing next to McCree.

“It is now.” McCree said, tipping his head at the seat across from him in invitation. The stranger slid into the booth with a small, polite, smile. McCree smiled back.

“Thank you. My name is Hanzo.”

“McCree.” He said and touched two fingers to the brim of his hat. Hanzo sat with near perfect posture; back straight, shoulders relaxed. But McCree could see the tension in his neck, the carefully guarded suspicion in the tight lines around his eyes. He’d been there before, too. Sat with a smile and charm that disarmed the people around him but kept his own walls high and impenetrable.

McCree took a sip of coffee, careful to keep his own posture open, easy to read--non-threatening. The tension around Hanzo’s eyes tightened. Only seasoned killers knew this game. The game of dressing like a civilian, smiling like a civilian, acting like a civilian. Only seasoned killers scanned a room and sat with the biggest threat to make sure they were in range to either kill or incapacitate if need be.

Sunlight filtered in through the window. The table suddenly fractured into a kaleidoscope of colored glass laid out in a beautiful mosaic; bouncing color here and there and painting them in splashes of it. McCree watched Hanzo’s eyes flick down to the table then outside at the passing mountains.

“It still gets my guts all tied up in knots sometimes.” McCree said.

“Where are we?” Hanzo turned back to McCree. There was a furrow forming between his brows.

“You know damn well where we are. You’re just refusing to connect the dots. Just...ease into it.”

“Do not play mind games with me, McCree.” Hanzo’s hands clenched into fists.

“I ain't, but you gotta get there on your own, otherwise you’ll just end up rejecting the truth and that ain’t healthy, darlin’.”

The train’s whistle blew, high pitched and musical, as the great beast of a machine slowed, slowed, slowed and then stopped. McCree closed his eyes and breathed in deep. When he opened them again, Hanzo was looking out the window. The scenery had changed again: a train station made of golden white. The station was empty yet it held a sense of peace and welcome. Behind him, there was a rustling of fabric and then a strong hand landed on McCree’s shoulder.

“See ya later, Eastwood.” Lucio grinned.

“Happy trails, pardner. You be sure to stay froggy, now, ya’ hear?” McCree said, watching with a heart that couldn’t decide if it should sink down into his boots with its sadness or float up into his throat with its joy.

“Say it one last time?” Lucio asked, big brown eyes pleading.

“Alright, one last time.” McCree stood, hand going to rest on Peacekeeper’s handle. He was painfully aware of Hanzo tracking the motion. “I tried being reasonable. I didn’t like it. So, now you’ve got to ask yourself one question.” Lucio mouthed the next part as the words left McCree’s tongue. “Do you feel lucky, punk?”

Lucio chuckled and walked towards the light coming in from the door. He paused with one foot on the platform to look back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Lucio said. “I really do.” And then he was gone, the door closing behind him. A sense of loss kicked McCree in the gut. He didn’t want to but he forced himself to turn and look at Lucio’s booth. It was clean. His notes and songs were gone, the cup and dishes and popsicle sticks had been cleared away, and his keyboard had disappeared. It was as if he’d never existed at all.

With a heavy sigh, McCree sat back down. Outside, the ocean sparkled. The train once again racing along its tracks.

“We’re dead?” Hanzo’s voice snapped his attention back. The poor man looked devastated; face gone pale, eyes watery, eyebrows angled down low: a man on the edge, hoping someone would drag him back onto solid ground.

“Dead as door nails.” McCree pushed him over, watched him fall. Hanzo curled in on himself, a low wounded sound crawled up his throat as his forehead came to rest on the wood of their table. McCree’s heart went out to him, it really did. He picked up his cup and took a healthy pull of whiskey. It was perhaps the one thing that this liminal space did for him that he was truly grateful for: endless booze.

He leaned back and let Hanzo cry himself dry; politely ignoring him when he started speaking in rapid Japanese. Let him go through the stages of grief uninterrupted. It took him an impressively short amount of time to get to anger. Hanzo’s head shot up.

“So this is it then?! Eternity in an ancient fucking train care?! To do what? Think about our sins? Repent? What about the people we left behind?! What about my brother--I didn’t even get to say goodbye!” Hanzo’s face was wet with his tears but he made no move to dry them. He sat, unashamed, and McCree admired him for it. Hanzo didn’t give him a chance to respond. He shoved himself from the booth, the door reluctantly opened for him on hinges that squealed, and out he went.

McCree let his head fall back as he tried, yet again to get to the bottom of his cup.

* * *

 

The Egyptian desert of ancient antiquity sped by in streaks of browns and greens. The great pyramids stood tall, proud, flawless, and beautiful in the distance. Mountains in their own right. McCree blinked and suddenly he was looking at the Great Canyon. He started out the window for a long time, bouncing from one place to another. Around him, people talked quietly amongst themselves: white noise. He tried not to but he worried for Hanzo.

* * *

 

The door slid close behind him. The shooting range stretched out in all directions, as far as the eye could see. McCree shot from the hip. Targets popped up and targets got knocked down. When the urge to tear and rend and destroy washed over him, glass bottles appeared instead of foam blocks. He shot and watched them shatter with something close to joy.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat by the end. When he was done, McCree holstered Peacekeeper, turned on his heel and walked out the door; back to the train car.

* * *

 

Time didn’t mean anything here. That didn’t stop McCree from keeping track of it. Four weeks later, Hanzo slid into the seat across from him. He looked exhausted; hair tangled like he’d pulled at it and made it come loose from his ponytail, dark circles stained the skin under his eyes, and his cheek bones were sharp in the harsh light of day. McCree slid his cup across the glass table at him.

Today, there was a depiction of a stylised sun in the center.

“How’d it go, being a ghost?” McCree asked as gently and as kindly as he knew how.

“You’ve done it.” Hanzo said, voice gone breathy with the countenance of a man who had just learned a horrible truth. “I saw my brother.” He took the cup and took a tentative sip. A moment later, his eyes widened. He lowered the cup and gave it a look before bringing it back up and downed several large mouthfuls. “You have a surprisingly refined taste in saké, cowboy.”

McCree raised one amused eyebrow. He’d been drinking tequila. “Yeah, I’ve done the entire ghost-hood thing, wasn't fun. I got my ass exorcised. I can’t go through that door unless I’m ready to move on. So, let me give you a piece of friendly advice. If you’re set on sticking around awhile, get your own cup.” The corner of Hanzo’s mouth ticked up briefly before falling again; to drained for any real mirth.

“How long have you been here?” Hanzo asked.

“I’ve seen Lucio--the kid with the dreads--reincarnate twice now. Kid likes to live fast and die young, but he always bounces back right quick.”

“Are you....are you waiting for someone?” Hanzo took another sip of saké.

“Honestly, I don’t know. It just don’t feel right to leave yet, y’know?” McCree shrugged. Hanzo looked down into the cup as if the alcohol held the world’s secrets, and then out the window--a forest of trees with pink flowers--then back to McCree.

“Yes.” He said. “I believe I do.”


	4. Someday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda short and, unfortunately, it didn't get the love it needed (not n my mind anyway) but I didn't have a lot of time to work on it.

What if ‘someday’ suddenly became ‘right now’?

He’d heard the phrase over and over again. 

_ Someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand. _

And that day came.

_ Someday soon, you’ll be an older brother. _

When that day came, he looked at Genji--small, new, and ugly--and his heart was filled with something he didn’t have a name for. But it’d felt so good that it had been a physical pain in his chest.

_ Someday I won't be around to protect you! _

And that day came in a flash of steel and blood and things that went bump in the night.

_ Someday you’ll grow big and strong. _

That day wasn’t any  _ one _ day, but a long series of them and, still, they came; marching along the to beat of Time: endless and inevitable.

_ Someday you’ll have a dragon of your own. Just be patient. _

Hanzo even said it a few times, himself.

_ Someday, I’ll be brave like father and strong like mother. _

_ Someday, I want to scale a clocktower. _

_ Someday, I’ll be the world’s greatest Hunter! _

_ Someday, Genji, I’ll get the pleasure of telling embarrassing stories at your wedding. _

But that day, Hanzo knew, wouldn’t come--not anymore--because something else had arrived first.

_ Someday, I’ll die. _

And suddenly ‘someday’ became ‘right now.’

The monster’s fur was getting soaked with a mixture of blood and rain. It lay a few meters away from him. Hanzo’s vision blurred but he could still make out the tall vampire standing between the dead beast and his own prone body: mauled, mangled, and brutalized. In that moment, breathing was the hardest thing Hanzo had ever had to do. 

He squinted, trying to make sense of it all. It was raining, his hair was plastered to his forehead with it, yet there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. It was sunny and warm yet a vampire stood before him; completely unconcerned about it.

A vampire with a wide brimmed hat, revolver, chaps, spurs. He crouched down to cradle the nape of Hanzo’s neck gently, like a lover. The dragons tried to rise, tried to defend him, but there were too exhausted--too spent--to put up a real fight and sank back down into his skin. Hanzo coughed with a horrible wet noise. 

“Someday,” The vampire said, lowering himself to Hanzo’s neck. “I hope you’ll forgive me.” 

But that day had already come. He didn’t have to save Hanzo from the creature when it’d gone mad with bloodlust just as he didn’t need to try to save him now. But he had and he was. The vampire’s lips were cool when they brushed against Hanzo’s throat.

“I’m sorry.” He said then bit down deep. Hanzo’s breath hitched, body tensing. The dragons hissed and growled as the vampire’s thick venom was forcefully fed into his body. Hanzo eyes fluttered, his heart slowed, and then he felt himself die; felt himself be reborn. The light of the sun suddenly burned. His maker covered him in his red serape and gently picked him up, mumbling ‘I’m sorry’s and ‘it’ll be okay’s.

Hanzo wished he had the strength to tell him to keep his apologies as he reached for the dragons. They were sluggish and in pain but they reached back. Some of the tension bled out of him when he was certain that they wouldn’t abandon him.


	5. Run Run Run As Fast As You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WereCree and Demon Hanzo in a cornfield maze

The road was lined with lights, old and yellow, mounted atop dark wood barrels. Hanzo smirked at the way they were evenly spaced, following the natural back and forth of the gravel. It was a fair toss up between Reyes and McCree of who had done them, though Hanzo would put money on the latter. Reyes was too in love with flair and a sense of drama to set up  _ just _ lights and barrels. Reyes would have put carved pumpkins and potions that screamed when they sensed movement, Hanzo was sure.

“Do we have to be here?” Genji whined. The gravel crunched under his boots with each stomping step: pouting. 

“To think we’ve lived long enough to see the day when you complained about a part while I insisted on going.” Hanzo said.

“This isn’t a party! We’re here to scare mortals. How is that a party?”

“The mortals are having a festival just there.” Hanzo tilted his head. Harsh human light was seeping through the trees and fog from where they gathered in the hills below. To a lesser creature’s eyes, the light was undetectable.

“Great. So we’re here to crash a party. Wonderful.” Genji shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders.

“It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

“If it isn’t, you have to come with me to any party of my choosing.”

“Very well.”

“I mean it, brother.  _ Any _ party.”

Hanzo took the porch stairs slowly and knocked on the ancient wood of the manson’s door. It swung open before his knuckles could make contact for a third time. The air that rushed out to meet them help a sense of welcome and beckoning. 

“Yeah. Because that isn’t creepy.” Genij said. Hanzo elbowed him in the ribs.

“Stop being negative. It’s just Reyes.” He said as he stepped into the house. Warmth and sound immediately enveloped him. His sensitive ears pricked up at the sudden stimulation. It sounded like everyone was in the living room yet no voice stood out from the others; simple, quiet, conversation.

“I thought your boyfriend’s name was McCree.” Genji said suspiciously, suddenly at Hanzo’s side with his nose almost touching his cheek, he stood so close.

“His father.” Hanzo pushed him away with a huff, but Genji grabbed his arm and pulled them to a stop. 

“You’re that serious about him?” Genji leaned in close again, pale eyes jumping from left to right as he searched his brother’s grey face for something.

“Of course.” Hanzo endured his attention until Genji found was he was looking for.

“Okay.” He said, letting him go. They made their way through Reyes’ manson, turned a corner into the living room and stopped short. Hanzo blinked. They’d found Reyes’ decorations. Owls made of smoke with six eyes swooped between the support beams. Jack-O-lanterns floated at all heights to throw the room into ambient lighting. Small ghosts the size of Hanzo’s hand slowly swayed where they stood as if being disturbed by a gentle breeze. Genji’s breath hitched. A black widow the size of a tarantula was making its way across the wall. It’s brethren spun gothic lace from the ceiling in oranges and blacks.

It was beautiful.

Reyes was easy to find among the other creatures that had showed up. The witch was dressed like a vampire; black suit with red accents, a spell had been cast over his eyes to make them flash red whenever they caught the light just right, and his skin had been lightened until it was death-pale. Hanzo grabbed Genji’s wrist and tugged him along, weaving through the small crowd like water around the river rocks.

“Reyes,” Hanzo said when they were standing next to him. “I would like for you to meet my brother, Genji.” Reyes turned a critical eye over the demon before he offered a respectable bow. Genji returned the gesture, dipping farther down than Reyes had.

“Nice to meet you. Do you plan on joining us tonight?” He asked.

“I’m here to have fun.” Genji said with a careless shrug.

“Aren't we all?”

* * *

Hanzo left them to get acquainted; no doubt Reyes was running him through the rules of their little festival crashing. Although, Hanzo wasn’t so sure it could be called as such when Ana had already invited them to do it. 

The rules were simple, in any case. They’d go down and each creature would sniff out their own territory, mark it, and any mortal that crossed into their zone was free for the scaring. Reyes would go in first and put a spell on a few dozen humans. It would then act as a virus. Within the span of a few minutes, each human would be marked with a necklace that would change color based on how much emotional tension they could handle. When the necklace turned red, no one was allowed to mess with them until it went back to green.

The smell of damp leaves, spicy tobacco smoke, and something else caught his attention. 

Hanzo smirked.

* * *

 

Screams filled his ears and it was intoxicating. Hanzo ran after the humans, pale eyes gleaming with the promise of violence, tucks flashing, grey skin and red markings shimmered in the low light of the moon like fish scales. One of the humans  abruptly turned from yellow to red. Hanzo dug his heels into the dirt and stopped. He did not stay to watch them disappear around the twisting corners of the cornfield maze, instead looping back the way he’d came to find new prey. 

The thrill of the hunt was singing in his veins. He wanted blood in his mouth and a victim to feed on. It was only by virtue of age that he was able to hold himself back, keep his rational mind rather than descend into his baser instincts. 

The maze was comprised of cornstalks that stood seven feet high, reinforced with wooden fencing to keep people from cheating. The widest path that Hanzo had found allowed a pack of three humans to walk shoulder to shoulder while the smallest forced him to turn sideways. Such small obstacles were enough to deeply unsettle the mortals. The thrill ran higher with each scream.

Hanzo chased large packs and small packs, packs of females and packs of males, packs of the old and packs of the young. And each time a human turned red, he forced himself to let them go. He could hear the other creatures having their fun, too. He could hear Genji’s musical laugh as he lured the humans around and around, intentionally getting them lost and leading them into someone else’s territory. Could hear Amélie hiss and giggle meanly when the humans got caught in her giant webs. And their sounds helped keep him from slipping away.

He caught the scent of more prey and started the hunt anew. 

On and on he ran. 

Until a large body collided with him and took him down into the dirt. Hanzo snarled and kicked only to be snarled at  _ back _ . The familiar sound arrested his attention and he stopped fighting.

“I knew I smelled something pretty.” McCree cooed, breath hot on the back of his neck as he panted against Hanzo’s skin. Hanzo chuckled.

“You’re outside your zone, ōkami.” 

McCree’s chuckle was much darker. “Nah. I’m exactly seven feet from my boarder. It’s you, darlin’, that’s outside his zone.” Hanzo scented the air and, true to claim, could smell his own magic two meters away but not in the dirt he rested on. Hanzo tensed, growling low in his chest with an angry huff.

“None of that, now.” McCree said. He nuzzled against Hanzo’s neck gently, tongue lapping at the sweat in long, smooth, strokes. Slowly, Hanzo felt himself be calmed by the grooming. 

“It seems I owe you, then.” He said, turning to look over his shoulder. McCree loomed over him, sweating from his own hunt, hair in disarray, and making a visible effort to control his breathing. The moon wasn’t yet full but she was close. Every now and then McCree’s body would spasm like the muscles of an overworked horse; hair would turn to fur, nails to claws, teeth to fangs, and then back again. 

His eyes, however, stayed the same. It was only the sixth sense of things, that marked him as  _ other _ in the low light. The wrongness of a creature so familiar terrified the humans more than Hanzo ever would, because everyone knew that the real monsters were the mortals themselves. 

“That you do.” McCree leaned down and lowered his voice to a whisper, lips brushing against Hanzo’s pointed ear. “If I get my way, we’ll both be screaming by the end of the night.” Chapped lips and a warm mouth sealed themselves over Hanzo’s pulse point and sucked. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes to better savor the feeling. McCree’s teeth gently dug into his skin and sent a shiver down his spine.

“You’ll get your way.” Hanzo said. “I’ll make certain of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one I wanted to get steamy but, alas, work got in my way and I didn't have the time. Looks like that's gonna happen for the next two as well.


	6. Through The Window

He heard the window slide open, which was strange, because he lived on the 15th floor. McCree tensed, ready to draw Peacekeeper, before he realized that he lived on the 15th floor. He sighed, leaned back into his chair with purpose, and licked his thumb and used it to turn the page. Listening with half an ear as something heavy hit the floor, followed by the soft ‘tap tap’ of metal tipped boots. The window slid closed, the latch ‘clicked.’ To anyone else, it might have sounded too much like a bullet sliding into the chamber for comfort.

To McCree, it sounded like a safe door being locked tight.

Hanzo shuffled into the room, feet dragging as much as he ever let them drag. McCree’s eyes flicked up, down, did a double take, before slowly, lowered the book. Hanzo carefully set the heavy, black, bag down onto the coffee table.

“What?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Who’d ya kill this time?” McCree asked, only half joking. Hanzo was covered in dirt and gore, brain matter plastered in his hair.

“One of my own.” Hanzo sat on the floor, leaning forward to dig through his bag; pulling his gear out piece by piece. “Bloodlust.”

“Thats unfortunate.” 

“It was a waste.” Hanzo set Stormbow aside, rolling his shoulders to shrug out of his heavy coat; the badge pinned to the chest flashed. McCree tried not to snort. He couldn’t drag up enough feeling for sympathy--not for anyone who let themselves fall that far. Not for anyone who let themselves go that deep. Hanzo worked for the Bureau responsible for dealing with creatures that'd gone off the deep end. They tried to save who they could but that wasn't always what happend. McCree ran his tongue along a fang, wishing for a smoke.

“Them’s the pits, darlin’. But ain't that why your section exists? You’re a necessary evil.” McCree heaved himself up and tossed the book onto the side table. “Can’t save em all. C’mon.” He gently nudged Hanzo to his feet.

“You were easy to save.” Hanzo grunted as something realigned itself with a ‘pop.’

“I wanted saving. By the looks of you, they didn’t.” With a gentle push, McCree herded Hanzo towards the bathroom.

“Take a shower. I’ll clean your gear.” Hanzo glared over his shoulder. McCree put his hands up in surrender. “I won't touch Stormbow.”

“You, Jesse McCree, are a saint masquerading as a wolf.” Hanzo grabbed McCree’s shirt collar and used it to drag him down into a light kiss.


	7. A Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Good Day in the cemetery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its short and I don't know if I like it but its all I got time for. I should be able to go back to the longer ones for the rest of the week but we'll see.

Nobody knew his real name, not even him. It’d been to long since he’d said it; since he so much as thought about it. Now, he just used one that he’d seen on a grave. He left the family name where it lie. He was not of their blood. He did not have that right.

He sat in the grass, back straight, shoulders relaxed, as he contemplated the headstone. He tried to envision the life this man must have led but the cold stone gave away nothing. All it said was ‘Hanzo Jones. Beloved brother, son, and uncle. He fought the good fight. May he rest in peace.’

He plucked a blade of grass to spin and twist between his fingers. Jones. An awfully common American name. Hanzo Jones; the son of some long dead immigrant of Asian blood, he was sure. He bowed his head and smiled ruefully at himself. The long centuries of isolation didn’t seem to matter, he’d always cling to his homeland, even if by means of a simple name. The blade of grass ripped in two.

Sighing, he let it drop, and lifted his head. To the west, the cemetery’s grave digger was hard at work hauling dirt from the earth one shovel load at a time. He tried to tell himself it was morbid curiosity instead of loneliness that prompted him to rise and approach. The grave digger’s jeans had dirt on the cuffs, his hands were covered in leather gloves, and the bandanna tied around his throat gave him a splash of color against the various tones of brown.

“Is it a good day?” He asked when he was but a meter away, jerking his chin at the hole in the ground. McCree glanced up with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Howdy, sweetheart.” He said. “It’s a fine day, indeed.”

“How can it? The grave is so small. I was under the impression that the death of a child was cause for a bad day.”

McCree chuckled. “Grave’s small because it ain’t done yet. It’s for Mrs. Williams. Died of old age, somewhere around 90, I reckon.”

“I see.” He crossed his arms and watched McCree dig for a moment. The sun glinted off the shovel everytime he threw dirt over his shoulder. It was strange that McCree never seemed to tire. Once, he crouched atop an obelisk and watched him dig almost all day; every now and then he’d stop to check his gloves. “I have a name now.” He said after a while.

McCree stabbed the shovel into the ground and leaned against the grip as he gave him his full attention. 

“My name is Hanzo.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hanzo. I’d shake your hand but...” McCree lifted his hands to show his filthy palms. Hanzo shrugged. It didn’t really matter, he already had McCree’s name. Why would he need to shake his hand? Hanzo knew it was his turn to pass the conversational ball but he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to keep this banter going. It’d been too long since he had anyone to talk to. In truth, he didn’t know what possessed him to talk to McCree to the first place.

“Well, stick around. Talk a while but I gotta keep at it.” McCree said and hefted the shovel.

“Talk? About what?” Hanzo crossed his arms and shifted his weight to a single foot.

“Tell me a story.”

“About?”

“Anything.” Hanzo cast his mind back, trying to remember a story he’d been told before but there was nothing. The wind whispered, the grass sighed; somewhere in the distance, a bird sang. For some reason, the sound caught Hanzo’s ear and he smiled as he sat down.

“A long, long time ago, before guns, before the samurai vanished, when the Emperor ruled with an iron fist and a gentle hand, there was a village. It was high in the mountains, surrounded by sakura and in this village, there lived two brothers.....”


	8. Doll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree gets Doll.

The gun sat heavy in his hands, gleaming and newly cleaned; freshly reassembled. A part of him hated it but a larger part had fallen in love with the weapon the moment it’d been given to him. His second ‘gift’ from the Devil. McCree shifted the gun to his left hand; the initials ‘S. M.’ stared back at him, shining a dark silver from where it was engraved into the grip. 

_ “Jesse McCree. I have need of you.” _

_ “The fuck do you want?” _

_ “To strike a deal. Do what I ask and I’ll give you the gun your mother was buried with.” _

_ “Go fuck yourself! She was buried with that faulty piece of shit for a reason.” Reason being that it was her gun and she’d loved it dearly. Even when it’d failed to fire the bullet that would’ve saved her life. The bullet that would’ve saved her son the pain of saying goodbye when he was fourteen. McCree couldn’t stand the sight of it. _

_“Do as I ask and it shall never fail you.”_ _He didn’t want the Devil going anywhere near his mother’s grave but somehow, he’d still been talked into being the middleman--the mouth piece between the Devil and some other creature that looked like a demented raven. Afterwards, McCree had tried to forget about the whole thing by diving to the bottom of any bottle he could get his hands on. It hadn’t worked._

McCree switched the revolver back to his right hand, pushing the initials into the palm of his hand as if he could brand them there, keep them safe. He’d failed her once. Never again. Not for anything. He stood, shoving Peacekeeper into her holster strapped to his thigh, and slung his duffle bag over his shoulder. It was time for him to go.

* * *

 

He drove with the sun on his right. The road stretched out before him, seemingly endless, but he knew better. Sooner or later he always ran out of road. Up ahead, there was a man in a suite standing beside the highway. McCree glanced at him and winced as a sharp pain stabbed him in the eyes. He drove past the man but a mile down the road, he saw him again. McCree grit his teeth and drove past, keeping his eyes averted. Another mile but the man in the suite persisted. McCree didn’t bother stopping for him that time either.

The radio suddenly crackled to life. “Jesse McCree.” 

_ Three strikes _ McCree thought to himself. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably and squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles bled white. He hated that voice. It wasn’t loud or booming, it wasn’t even sinister. It was smooth and pleasant to listen to. But that made sense, he supposed. 

“What?” He snarled. The Morning Star chuckled. It rose the small hairs on McCree’s arms and sent a horrible tingle down his spine.

“Always so angry even though every deal is made willingly.  _ Aint it, _ Jesse McCree.” McCree tried not to flinch at Lucifer's fair imitation of his accent. “I have need of you.”

“Yeah no shit, else you wouldn’t be talking at me through the goddamn radio.” Suddenly there was a strong presence behind him. McCree tensed and glanced at his rearview mirror. The Devil himself sat reclined in the back seat, not a hair out of place, and beautiful as ever. McCree set his jaw and forced his eyes back onto the road. “Spit it out then.”

“Markus Koller. I gave him power in exchange for fifty souls. He has yet to keep his end of the deal and I grow tired of waiting. His time is up. I want you to kill him. Do this and I will give you a companion that shall stay with you, faithfully, until such a time as you are no longer something of mine.”

“And what, pray tell, kinda power did you give him?” Lucifer sat forward and leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted against the side of McCree’s jaw. He sat very still like he was trying to avoid being bit by a poisonous snake, heart jumping into his throat and guts trying to commit mutiny as they dropped down into his boots.

“Decay.” The Morning Star whispered.

* * *

 

McCree found Markus Koller in a biker bar. The neon sign in the window declared it was ladies night for ‘angels only.’

“I fucking wish.” McCree muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders to adjust his heavy, black serape. Changing with the times but he still preferred the simple red and gold fabric of his old one. Maybe he’d go back to it one day but for now...

The bikers loitering on the steps and around the bikes didn’t stop him when he walked past them and up the stairs to shoulder his way in. They did, however, throw him strange looks. McCree knew damn well what he looked like: an eighteen year old with unusually hard eyes and a strange set to his shoulders. He’d cut his hair to be shorter in the back and pierced his ears.

Warmth folded around McCree when he stepped into the bar. Both men and women sat around in the booths, at the bar, some stood around the room with drinks in their hands, and the pool table in the back had a fairly large crowd gathered around it. Not one person seemed to be as young as he was. Koller was easy to spot. His hair was greenish-white and filthy as if he just got done crawling out of his own grave. His face was as clean as anyone’s who made their living out in the boondocks but every time he moved too quickly, every time his hair moved just right, McCree could see the peeling skin along his jaw.

McCree tilted his hat down and smirked. Markus Koller may have gotten the power of decay but in so doing, it appeared that he himself was decaying. And it was happening slowly.

“That looks painful.” McCree said as he walked up to the man, gesturing at his own jaw with a finger. Koller’s cold eyes raked over McCree from over the lip of his glass and then narrowed. McCree smirked with too many sharp edges. It was not a nice thing to see.

“Get lost, boy. If you know what's good for you.” Koller’s voice was dry, deep, and had an unhealthy rasp to it.

“‘Fraid I can’t do that, friend. Ya see, Lucy aint too impressed with the debt you managed to rack up. And it’s time to pay up.” McCree looked over his shoulder, made a show of counting heads. “But by the looks of things, there aint no fifty souls in here. Best think fast.”

Koller laughed. It was a cruel sound. McCree watched as the whiskey in Koller’s glass soured.

“And he thinks he can send his pretty little boy toy to intimidate me. You gotta be fucking kidding me. Guess you didn’t’ hear me the first time.” Koller’s hand shot out, snake quick, and grabbed McCree’s serape. Using it to haul him in close. “Get out of my goddamn face or I’ll beat you within an inch of your life and send you crawling back to daddy.”

McCree chuckled. Smoke and a heat wave from hell slid past his teeth to curl around Koller like an embrace from death itself. Koller flinched back as his hair almost caught fire.

“Cute trick.” Koller hissed.

“Aint it just?” 

Koller knocked his whiskey back and sighed with a smack of his lips. The glass came flying at McCree’s face a moment later. He let his knees give out, the glass sailed over his head and took his beloved hat with it as it passed. McCree rolled sideways as Koller knocked his chair over as he rose. The glass shattered against something but McCree didn’t give it much thought as to what. He came up with a left hook that left his knuckles aching something fierce. He recoiled a step back from the pain but Koller followed him with a swing of his own.

McCree kept backing away until his back hit the wall. Decay followed Koller’s every step, leaving boot prints in the floorboards. He glanced at his hand. The skin of his knuckles had peeled back, leaving muscle tissue exposed, the flesh around the wounds had turned a slight green.

“Cute trick.” McCree snarled.

“You’re about to see another one.” Koller grinned, teeth flashing. McCree grit his teeth and rushed Koller. Swinging with his left at the man’s jaw. Decay met decay. Koller screeched. McCree screamed, doubling over around his hand protectively. Pain raced up to his elbow. A chair came out of left field to smash against the back of Koller’s head. McCree glanced up to see a few of the bikers psyching themselves up to join in--make it a proper bar fight out of it.

Koller turned his attention on them, reaching out to the nearest man. He was big, arms rippling with muscle. Koller did not try to punch him, instead taking lunging grabs at the guy. Some of the other bikers went for Koller, only to recoil with shouts of pain. Chaos descended over the bar as the patrons tried to mob him, ignoring the screams of the people around them in that way humans did when they had their sights set on hurting someone.

A woman screamed. A biker screamed. The skin of his arm decayed faster and faster the longer Koller touched it. He clawed at Koller’s face, only to have that hand have chunks of flesh slough off in a great horrible mess. The stench made the people around them back off, gagging. 

Koller let him go when his knees hit the floor. McCree watched him go into shock, sweat beading on his face as he went pale and shaky. McCree gagged as the other patrons starred in shocked horror. Nobody moved for a solid four seconds. McCree knew because he counted. But then everyone rushed to the door, fighting to be the first one out. Their screams and raised voices were nothing but white noise to McCree. He reached for the smoke deep in his lungs and exhaled as hard as he could, filling the bar with smog until it was so thick he couldn’t see the floor past his knees.

“You see, boy?!” Koller giggled, high on power and drunk off whiskey. “You can’t touch me. Not even the Devil is willing to go toe to toe with me. You’re just his pretty little pawn.” McCree sidestepped along the wall, spurs completely silent. The ache in his arm had traveled up to his shoulder and he had to force himself not to look. Step by step, he moved for the window. The floorboards bent slightly under his weight. Decay ran up the walls and made the varnish bubble and peel away. “Where are you?!” Koller howled. 

A support beam in the ceiling gave up on life and fell to the floor with a deafening bang. The boards around it snapped. McCree dared not say a word. He exhaled more smoke but the sound of it hissing past his teeth gave him away. Koller came flying at him from the fog, eyes flashing white and eerily dead. There was no rhythm to Koller’s punches and strikes. McCree kept up as well as he could, left arm taking what punishment it could as he used it to block and deliver his own hits. 

He kept sidestepping towards the window, spitting heat wave after heat wave at Koller to keep him back as far as he could. Koller came forward, McCree spat heat. A vicious curl of satisfaction coiled in his belly as Koller’s hair caught fire. Tongues of flame, so hot they burned blue, licked across his face, his scalp. Koller screamed as his skin burned, hands coming up to extinguish them, but they caught too. 

Finally, McCree felt his back press against the cool glass of the window--freezing cold compared to the heat of the bar. The desert sand shattered the glass when McCree summoned it. Shards flew across the room. Sand rushed in like water into a sinking ship. The roar of it was unlike anything McCree had ever heard. It was louder than a train, louder than the Great Falls. The grains of sand ebbed around him as they filled the bar. He kept the storm coming until the pain was too great, the strain to much, and bleached his mind of all else.

Gasping, his legs gave out, knees meeting the floor with a thud but the pain was akin to a stubbed toe compared to the rest of him. His arm was in agony. McCree closed his eyes, grit his teeth so hard they ached, and turned his head away. His body was hot, bones grinding together from the strain of calling the sandstorm, and his throat felt like he’d drank a bottle of hot sauce. He gasped as tears ran down his face. 

“Jesse McCree.” The Morning Star purred. “Well done.” McCree heard footsteps but did not open his eyes. His hat was placed onto his head as if the Devil was crowning him, carefully and deliberately as if that would make it mean something more. A hand suddenly grabbed McCree’s bicep and squeezed meanly. McCree screamed, jerking forward until his forehead touched the floor. “I can’t have you dying just yet. I may still have need of you.” And then a weight was lifted off his shoulder. McCree sobbed and gasped wetly, rocking himself back and forth but Lucifer did not let go.

Gradually and very slowly, the pain ebbed and then vanished.

“There.” Lucifer said. McCree opened his eyes and looked down at his hand. Only he had no hand. His left arm ended a few inches above where the elbow should have been but wasn’t.

“Fucker.” McCree choked on his despair. Behind Lucifer, Koller’s skeleton was buried up to his ribs in sand. His skin had been blasted clean off his bones until they gleamed white as if they’d been sun bleached. “Fuck!” He grabbed at his shoulder and squeezed.

His arm was gone.

His arm was gone!

It was gone and there wasn’t any blood, no pain, no nothing to show for it. There was no evidence that McCree had been born with a left arm at all. It was simply gone. Vanished into thin air. 

“Are you done yet?” 

“Give it back.” McCree whimpered--begged. “Give it back.”

“Next time. For now...” Lucifer whistled. Through the fading smoke, a silhouette suddenly appeared and when it stepped forward, McCree started laughing. It was high and hysterical, unhinged--going into shock or already there, he didn’t know. The Hellhound didn’t have fur, just black skin like a thick leather coat, scales wrapped around  its neck like a collar and on its feet in an imitation of socks and along its spine. Its ribs were exposed and backlit by the fire in its soul. It was a goddamn puppy. Evident by the floppy ears that, by the looks of them, would stand tall and pointed like a doberman when it was grown.

“A dog.” McCree giggled. “A goddamn arm for a fucking dog.”

“Hellhound.” Lucifer corrected. “And she is the companion I promised.” 

“I don't want no mother fucking dog. I want my arm back!” McCree snapped and glared up at the Morning Star but he was already gone. Alone in a bar surrounded by sand, with only a skeleton, and a puppy for company, McCree let himself slide sideways and curled up into a miserable ball. “I hate you.” he mumbled at the Hellhound. She let her long, forked, blue tongue slide out the side of her mouth in a smile.


	9. The Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo becomes a god

The house was built wedged precariously within a great fault that split the forest like a great god had reached down and drew a line into the earth. When Hanzo stood on the wrap around porch and leaned out, he could see where the rock had dug into the wood and left grooves as long as his arrow shafts. The pressure and support struts kept it from plummeting into the void below. The house had been built in the time of the first sunrise, protected by shields and charms that Hanzo maintained to this day. 

He could remember his father’s exhaustion when the house was his responsibility. Could remember the slumped posture and the dark circles bruising his eyes, and wondered when he would start feeling the strain. 

The house was covered ceiling to floor boards in evidence of countless lives lived: horizontal lines had been cut into one of the support columns with ages written in a neat hand beside each one. Height measurements. The sink was lined with beautiful river rocks despite there being no river for miles. The squares of glass set into the sliding doors had leaves of all shapes delicately cut into the corners. They were only visible when Hanzo used his hand as a backdrop. Wolves ran along the walls in faded pain and dragons flew along the ceiling in streaks of color. 

Genji had added a sparrow to the wall; painted in painful detail, wings shimmering, head tilted down to watch the wolves. Signs of life but only one soul within the walls. Hanzo knew the house had been little more than a cage to his brother and father but, to him, it was perfect. Isolation suited him fine because while he was alone he was not lonely. Genji visited whenever he wasn’t flitting from place to place, the kodama sat with him sometimes and let him use their trees when he practiced, and the void was not what people thought it was.

When the sun set and the moon rose, Hanzo grabbed a lantern and lit it. It was time. The void awaited. Carefully, he walked through the house, taking great pains to avoid the boards that creaked and groaned. The elevator sitting suspended in the center of the house was shaped like the lantern: a tall structure with ornate corners that curled. As quietly as he could, Hanzo shut the latch. He couldn’t make a single sound lest the void notice him too soon.

He pulled the lever that was mounted on the side and the elevator dropped down. The ropes didn’t groan nor did the iron wheels squeal. Down, down, down, into the earth he went. The walls of the fault drew closer the deeper he dropped and then he past the ledge and the stones suddenly jumped at him. They were so close that he could have reached out and touched them without fully extending his arm. The air grew cool and then cold and then freezing. The darkness drew closer and closer and closer until he only had the golden light of the lantern to see by.

The small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a shiver curled up his spine that he tried to suppress. The air around him felt thick and heavy. The void had finally noticed him. The elevator continued to drop him for several long minutes. Hanzo counted the seconds in his head as the void crawled closer; a predator stalking prey.  

Then it stopped. 

He’d reached the end of the rope. 

Something below him breathed. Hanzo leaned against the railing to look down and the void stared back. He could see them: four big, yellow, eyes. Hanzo smiled.

“I see you.” He said. “And I am not afraid.” They blinked before surging up, hot air that smelled of dead meat billowed around Hanzo and made him wrinkle his nose. The wolves panted at his feet, far below, he could hear their tails wagging with a deep ‘whup whup whup’ of displaced air.

There was a tugging in Hanzo’s chest that pulled him towards them, that beckoned him to reach out to them. Once, he’d asked his father what he saw every night when he fed the void a piece of mortal light, but he’d shaken his head, grabbed Hanzo’s shoulder, and said. “Do not answer their call. Whatever you do, no matter how hard it may seem do not answer or you will be lost to us.” Hanzo had sworn he’d never do it but now that he was here, he understood why his father had been so drained of life.

He’d been fighting a force that ran deeper than the void: his own nature. Hanzo shifted the lantern to his left hand and rolled up that sleeve. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to take a deep breath, forced his shoulders to relax, and let it go slowly. The wolves whined and tried to jump at him but they were to big and the walls of the fault squeezed them hard. Hanzo watched them.

Twins. Brothers. He thought of Genji as he reached down to them with his left hand. They whined louder, struggled harder, and Hanzo let the lantern tip. Flaming oil spilled into their mouths but the heat didn’t seem to bother them as they lapped at it greedily. When the oil ran out, Hanzo was plunged into the deepest dark any human would ever experience. It wasn’t the mere absence of light but the total banishment of it. He could hear the wolves nip at each other as they tried to chase the taste of mortal light.

It was now that he usually pulled the lever and rose, silently and unnoticed, up to the surface but tonight he lingered. The pull in his chest was insistent and growing painful. Hanzo dropped the lantern at his feet and reached into the void with his bare hand, fingers splayed as if he was trying to shake someone’s hand in that strange way Westerner’s had. The sounds stopped. Hanzo wasn’t sure how long he stood there, leaning over the railing, it could have been an hour or the time it took to blink or the time it took for a star to die or for a bell to chime exactly once.

Pain lanced up his hand, wrist, forearm, shoulder, chest as something latched onto him. Hanzo grit his teeth and panted. Something brushed against his mind, feeling him out, before it pushed in. Hanzo dropped to the floor and seized. The wolves yipped and howled and barked loud enough to raise the dead. It went on and on. Hanzo couldn’t wish for death because he couldn’t think past the pain.

Then it stopped.

The walls of the fault were suddenly  _ there _ and he could see them. It would’ve been easier to lift a boulder with a single blade of grass, he was certain of it, than it was to heave himself up to his feet but somehow, someway, he managed it. There was a strange weight dragging on his head. He lifted his hand and stared at his claws. Hanzo blew a steadying breath that shook. When he ran his tongue along his teeth, he felt fangs. A streak of white caught his eye and he caught it between his fingers: his hair, much longer than it was when he woke up that morning. Swirls of luminous gold trailed up and down his arm.

Hanzo covered his face with his hands and simply breathed.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

When his knees stopped shaking, Hanzo reached out without looking and pulled the lever.

The elevator had dropped a mortal but now rised a god. 


	10. From One Place To The Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo jumps dimensions.

When he came back to himself, he was sitting in a cafe with Genji across from him. His head was propped up in his hand, squishing one side of his face. The white noise of the cafe gradually filtered back in: conversation, the machines in the back, the clinking of cups. There was a cup of tea in front of him, still steaming. Hanzo picked it up just to feel the warmth from the ceramic against his palm.

“Where’d you go?” Genji asked.

“Nowhere.”

“Right. That’s why you’re smiling, because you went absolutely nowhere.”

“Right.”

“Right.” Genji held the ‘i’ for a few solid seconds. “Seriously, where’d you go?”

“I don’t know.” Hanzo said, which was only half-true. He knew McCree’s little workshop by heart, with its wet-work tools and mountains of maps of all places--even the unsavory ones. But he’d never tried to puzzle out it’s exact location. 

What did it matter? 

Hanzo took a drink of tea. It was Dragonwell. Genji let his head roll against his shoulders as he leaned back in his chair with a groan.

“Figures. Gone ten minutes. No clue where you went.”

Hanzo hid a smirk behind the rim of his cup.

* * *

 

McCree pushed himself away from the table with a heartfelt groan. The candle flame sputtered but held on to life. His eyes hurt from staring at the map for so long but damn it if he didn’t have it memorized now. He really should stop putting these things off until the day before a job was scheduled. But here he was. What was that word Hanzo had used? It’d been long and rolled off the man’s tongue without tripping. 

Pro-something.

McCree cracked his back with a sharp arch before falling forward into the next task: weapons maintenance. He cleaned his knives, checked the spring in his crossbow, oiled his leathers to keep them from squeaking--which they never did--and did a quick inventory of his flashbangs. 

_ Stun grenade _ . Hanzo called them. McCree snorted good-naturedly. That man had a name or correction or, at the very least, a  _ look _ for just about everything. He was well spoken, clean, kept himself looking healthier than anyone McCree had laid eyes on--including the king that one time during an assassination on his pretty wife. Hanzo wasn’t afraid of him. Wasn’t afraid to  _ joke _ with him and wasn’t that something?

Most folk McCree met ended up fearing him at least a little.  Reyes had trained McCree to be the best in this cursed profession. He could read anyone; could take them apart bit by bit until he knew what made them tick, could kill without getting caught, steal without being noticed, outfight and outmaneuver any advisory, impersonate better than a trained actor, and vanish into the dark as if he’d never been.

But for all that he couldn’t put his finger on Hanzo, couldn’t pin him down, and it sent a thrill up his spine. He was a mystery but the worst part was that Hanzo had never outright lied to him. Oh, sure, there were those half-truths and raised eyebrows that warned McCree to back off from the sore subjects. But never a lie. McCree bit his lip and wondered what he’d have to do to convince Hanzo to teach him that particular skill.

If he even could convince him. 

Hanzo didn’t want for anything, that much was clear, with his strange yet durable clothes, clean nails, hands calloused from the work he  _ wanted _ to do instead of  _ had _ to. McCree knew what he himself looked like, what he was worth, with his old shirts worn thin and stained pants, his hair made thick with dirt and ratted with tangled knots. It was a miracle that Hanzo even talked to him let alone kept coming back.

“Procrastinating again?” McCree tensed, hand tightening on flashbang in his hand. He sat there for a moment before forcing himself to relax. Then there was that. Hanzo’s  _ magic. _ Appearing out of thin air whenever it pleased him.

“Is that what ya call it?” McCree put the flashbang on the table with deliberate care before turning to face Hanzo. As always, he was a well put together man: wearing black pants that were loose enough for full range of movement but no looser, a shirt without sleeves but a high neck; showing off the beautiful artwork on his left arm-- _ tattoo _ \--what remained of his hair after he shaved the under layers was tied back into a tail, silver glinted between his eyes, and the ever present metal boots.

McCree had never seen him wear anything other than them, not even barefoot. He’d asked about it, once, and gotten one of those  _ looks _ that made him back off real quick. Now, he watched Hanzo take in the state of his desk before scanning the rest of the room.

“I’ve caught you in the middle of something important, haven't I?”

“I’m just plannin’ on killin’ a few people tomorrow.” McCree said. If Hanzo wasn’t going to lie to him then the least he could do was return the favor. Hanzo didn’t bat an eye. He came forward and looked over McCree’s maps: a few sewer systems, waterways, streets, and a large, very detailed, map of the Locklace manor. 

“Have you considered rooftops?” Hanzo asked. 

McCree raised an eyebrow. “No one’s gonna be aiming to shoot between those narrow streets.”

“I meant as a means of escape for yourself.” At McCree’s blank look, Hanzo sighed and straightened up. “Do not move. I’ll be right back.” And then he was gone, leaving McCree to stare at empty air.

“As he goddamn pleases.” McCree grumbled to himself. A minute or so passed in silence before Hanzo was suddenly there again. He had a strange contraption in his hands.

“Apologies. It took some digging to find it. Here.” Hanzo grabbed McCree’s left arm and had him hold it out while he strapped the thing to his arm. “This is a grappling hook with a 60 meter long wire capable of holding 110 kilograms.” Hanzo pulled McCree to his feet and slinked around to stand behind him. “The trigger is here. Aim, fire...” He did. “...And brace yourself for the pull.”

_ What pull? _ McCree thought to ask only to yelp as he was yanked forward, heels skidding along the floor as the grappling hook pulled him across the room and into the wall where Hanzo had shot it.

* * *

 

Hanzo came back to himself with a snicker, McCree’s look of puppy betrayal still etched into his mind. His joints were stiff from sitting in one place for so long. Hanzo let himself fall backwards onto his bed, the box the grappling hook called home sat on the floor, forgotten. Part of Hanzo hoped McCree wouldn’t need it while another part hoped he would use it to make an escape that was worthy of Hollywood. Maybe he should introduce him to movies. 

_ No. _ Hanzo shook his head at himself. Best not show anyone from what appeared to be the medieval period more than they could handle. Granted, McCree was handling everything very well. Even if he did equate Hanzo’s soul jumping from dimension to dimension at will as some sort of wizardly magic instead of what it actually was: a soul that wasn’t anchored to the body as it should be.

“So, where’d you go?” Genji asked. Hanzo turned his head to regard his brother from where he stood leaning against Hanzo’s door jamb.

“Nowhere.” Hanzo said. 

Genji made a show of looking down at the box. “Right.”

“Right.”

* * *

 

McCree lay on his back, sweat beading along his forehead and dripping into his hair, chest rising and falling like an overworked stallion as he panted with clenched teeth. The ceiling of his house swam in and out of focus. His left arm hurt like nothing else. He tilted his head to look at it. Hanzo’s grappling hook wasn’t a kind toy, jerking him up onto the rooftops and across gaps he couldn’t jump, but it felt like it was trying to dislocated his shoulder every time he used it.

Though he had to give the damn thing credit. It had saved his life.

“Sorry, Han. But ‘m keepin’ your toy. It’s mine now.”


	11. Plague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry its short but I ran out of time.

Hanzo sighed. The shrubs around him withered and then died as he passed them, such was his curse. Nothing living could survive in his presence. McCree shuffled along beside him, spurs jing, jing, jingling, with each heavy step; he reached up to fix the bandana tied around the lower half of his face, eyes glowing green in the dark.

Hanzo glanced over at the zombie. His sole companion. McCree was the only creature to have stuck with him throughout his wondering. He never complained when Hanzo skirted the edges of the villages--keeping a safe distance from them--never once spoke out when Hanzo pushed himself further and further into the wilds. However, McCree always pulled him back when he drifted too far and Hanzo found himself grateful beyond words.

Wherever they went, plague and death followed. How many villages--how many _lives_ \--had they snuffed out simply by being? Animal, human, creature? How many blood lines had they ended?

“Hey.” McCree said, voice dry and whisper thin, as he grabbed Hanzo’s hand. “Your thinkin’ so loud I can hear it all the way over here.”

“Perhaps we should go away.”

“‘Away’?” McCree raised a pale eyebrow, his hair had been bleached of color long ago. “ ‘Away’ in what meanin’?”

Hanzo turned his hand so that he could lace their fingers together. “Away from humanity. Someplace where no one can find us. Where we can’t hurt anyone.”

The wind spoke and whispered with the trees, ruffling their hair as it passed.

“You know we can’t do that. Like it or not, sweetheart, you’re still among the livin’. Where are you gonna get the food you need if we’re off the edges of the map?”

“I’ll learn how to care for a garden.”

“Mhmm. And when winter hits and all the little critters run and hide. What then?”

“I’ll manage.” McCree sighed and tugged Hanzo into his side, pinning him in place by slinging an arm around his shoulders.

“I know you’re tired of killin’. I am too. But going away ain’t gonna help us. We just can’t.”

“I know.” Hanzo turned his head to press a kiss into McCree’s hand. “But someday.”

“Sure, Han. Someday.”


	12. A Plan of Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> despite the title, there is no action.

McCree woke up to Hanzo nudging the hinge of his jaw and the iron stink of blood. 

“How bad w’s it?” He slurred, voice sleep rough and honey thick, tilting his head aside.

“Bad enough.” Hanzo said then licked a long line up McCree’s throat, skin tingling as the venom sank in and numbed the nerves. He only felt the wet heat of Hanzo’s mouth when he sank his fangs in to feed. Forcing his tired limbs to obey, McCree laced his fingers through Hanzo’s hair to get at his scalp, running his claws across the skin gently. 

Hanzo drank in long, slow, pulls that lulled McCree back to the edge of sleep but not over it. He floated in the warm in-between for some time. When Hanzo stopped, McCree only became aware of it by the kiss that was pressed into his temple.

“How was the run?” Hanzo kept his voice hushed. His weight left the bed and then there was the sound of shifting fabric. McCree rolled over onto his side with a tired groan.

“Was fun. Papi made pumpkin rolls.” If he concentrated hard enough he could still feel the earth under his paws as he ran with Jack and Lena--could still smell Gabriel’s baking. The bed dipped again with Hanzo’s weight. The smell of blood was gone and he had to marvel at how quiet the vampire was when he moved. “How bad was it?” McCree asked again. He could feel Hanzo lay down and then there were arms wrapping around his torso; strong and comforting in their presence. 

“The hunters are growing more skilled.”

“Hmm.”

“I turned her. Perhaps now she shall see that we are not the monsters they like to think we are.”

“Ya’ gotta teach her, though. Show ‘er the ropes.” 

“Yes.” Hanzo laid his hand over McCree’s chest, directly above his heart, just to feel it beat, he guessed. “I will find her tomorrow and begin.”

“She’ll hate ya somethin’ awful.” 

“Indeed.” 

“”M coming with you.” McCree reached up to hold Hanzo’s hand. A kiss was pressed into the nape of his neck. 

“You will find no resistance from me.” He could feel Hanzo smile against his skin as a hand started to pet through his hair. “Now, go back to sleep. I shall need your nose in the morning.”

McCree huffed a chuckle.


	13. Treasure Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D&D setting anyone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry its short but I've been busy. If things go according to plan, I shall be busy this coming Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday as well.

The noise of the inn was pleasant to listen too; full of life, laughter, bawdy tunes from the guys in the corner, and the conversations a treasure trove of information. So long as you knew who to eavesdrop on. McCree’s tail flicked to wrap around his ankle as the barmaid walked by. She was new with a sweet face and a shy smile. She’d stepped on his tail once, amid spilled ale and stampering apologies. He’d since learned to keep it close until the day she learned how to watch her feet while watching her surroundings at the same time.

McCree took a mouthful of his ale, head tilted back to get at the last of it. When he set it down, there was a drow in the seat across from him. McCree raised an eyebrow. Hanzo raised his back as he shrugged out of his cloak: shoulders rolling in an elegant wave.

“Howdy, Hanzo. Long time no see.”

“Greetings, McCree. You are a surprisingly hard man to find.”

“Been lookin’ long, have ya?” McCree waved the barmaid over. “Another round, honey, and a saké for my friend here, thank ya kindly.” She nodded and scurried off.

“She is new, then?” Hanzo asked.

“Yeah, how’d you figure?”

“She is frightened of you.” He gestured to McCree as a whole. “Tieflings are not an everyday sight.”

“We ain’t exactly  _ uncommon _ , either.”

“Your skin is as red as your cloak.”

“Yours is grey!”

“I do not have horns.” Hanzo leaned over the table to flick the base of McCree’s horn, making him flinch away with a huff. “But I’m not here to ‘poke the bear’,” McCree smirked as Hanzo used air-quotes. “I’m here to ask you along on an.... _ adventure _ ....if you will.”

“What kind of adventure? A  _ hunt _ ?” The barmaid came back just then and set their drinks down before going about her business. She took great pains not to look at McCree. “Huh,” he said with a tilt of his head. “How ‘bout that. You’re right, she is afraid.”

“Yes, a hunt.” Hanzo said. McCree’s eyes sparkled with a certain kind of light. A treasure hunt. The only kind of hunt worth going on. McCree picked up his cup and waited for Hanzo to do the same before he tapped their wooden sides together.

“I’m in.”


	14. Enter Stage Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree and Doll meet Hanzo and Genji

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are my depictions of these characters going?

He stood along the river bank, watching the paper boats. They floated along undisturbed by their neighbors; each one bearing a single lit candle. Around him, some of the locals wept quietly, some did not. He wasn’t sure when he started traveling the world, chasing these festivals; only that it’d started in New Mexico during Día de los Muertos--the last time he’d spoken to his mother. McCree reached for Peacekeeper’s grip, running his thumb along the ‘S.M’ engraved there.

Spirits of all ages had chosen their own candle to follow. A pair of twins shared a boat, causing the flame to burn just a little brighter, a little higher. Doll sighed, bored, and leaned the entirety of her weight against his side. McCree stumbled sideways a single step before he braced himself with a grunt. Doll was tall enough now that her chest was at a level with his hips and McCree hoped she was done growing. It was hard to open and close doors with enough force to give her enough time to slink in before he did--hard to accommodate a hound no one could see. He couldn’t imagine the nightmare if she got much bigger. The spirit of an old woman vanished as she moved on, the candle sputtered, and then died.

“I hear ya.” McCree said as he reached up to set his hand atop Doll’s head, rubbing down her neck to her shoulders, and back up again. The scales on her neck were small--no bigger than McCree’s thumb nail--and felt like snake skin. Sometimes, he got lost in the feeling of them and spent hours petting her. “Just a little longer and then we’ll go. I promise.” Doll huffed but settled.

Another spirit vanished. Another candle went out. Someone down the line nudged a fresh boat into the river.

“Excuse me.” A young voice said and then there was a persistent tugging on McCree’s serape. He looked down to find a small ghost of a boy wearing white with a triangle on his forehead like a headband. “What are you? What's that?” The boy pointed at Doll. McCree blinked.

“Well, howdy. I’m soulless and she’s my hound. Now,” McCree nudged Doll off so he could crouch to be eye-level with the ghost. “Why ain’t you out there with the others?” He nodded towards the boats. The boy shrugged and rocked back and forth from heel to toe. “No need to be shy, no one’s gonna say anything.”

“‘M not shy.” The ghost said. “I just....don’t wanna go.”

“Why’s that?” 

“Because. Can I pet your dog?” Behind him, Doll shifted.

“Sure.” McCree watched the boy’s eyes light up as he came forward, hand outstretched to let Doll smell him. She bent down to take a quick sniff then pulled back. Giggling, the boy ran his hand along her side.

“She feels weird.” 

“That's because she doesn’t have fur.”

“Does she get cold?” 

McCree eyed the fire glowing behind Doll’s ribs. “Nah.”

* * *

 

McCree had stopped caring what town names were a long time ago. If he memorized every town he’d ever been in, his fuzzy little head would explode, he was sure of it. Towns changed anyway; they evolved from small villages, into towns and then cities, and sometimes they died out to become Ghost Towns. His hometown no longer existed. What was the point in learning a name that could go one way or the other? Why learn a name only to forget it later? At least, that was the theory.

It never stopped him from wandering each town he came across, looping around and around until he inevitably knew its streets and back roads as if he’d been born there. McCree chewed on a cigarillo and blew hot smoke out of his lungs. As he walked, people gravitated away from him, making room for Doll without knowing that they were doing it. The human brain could only  handle so much--their eyes saw her but when her image made it to their brain it couldn’t fathom what it was seeing and so they saw nothing. A handy thing if a little annoying. As a puppy, Doll needed a firm hand and a stern voice, which McCree gave and damn the strange looks when people thought he was talking to thin air.

The crowd around him was peppered with ghosts and spirits that weren’t read to move on. McCree pulled the brim of his hat down low over his eyes. What was a soulless man doing walking among the soulful? A black sheep; strange and unwanted. Doll whined and nipped at McCree’s hand, making him smile at her. They looped through the shopping district, the schools, and the office buildings, looking for thinner crowds, until they reached a residential area.

Doll growled, low and quiet, more of a rumble than anything: a warning. McCree kept his posture loose as he scanned the shadows.  _ There _ , a flicker of movement that didn’t belong. McCree blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth, reaching up to take the cigarillo from between his teeth. Doll stayed close to him as they continued to loop between neighborhoods, through alleys and side streets. Their shadow continued to follow. Doll kept her scales down, prompting a spark of pride to flare to life in McCree’s chest. It was a trick he’d tried to teach her as a puppy; to not react when she was being ‘hunted’, to keep her pursuer thinking they had the upper hand--the element of surprise--when they didn’t. 

They’ve circled back around to the front gates of the, supposedly haunted, Shimada Castle with its history of drugs, weapons trading, and assassinations. Its masters were recently deceased and no one had the nerve to step foot inside. McCree had a term for them from every time period he’d lived to see that fit them like a glove: thugs, gangsters, outlaws. The last one gave him pause. McCree sneered at himself, lip curling meanly. Being yakuza was well within the bounds of the law. He had no ground to stand on.

Going on near 150 years since he’d sold his soul and McCree looked to be in his early 20’s. Almost 166 since he’d been born into the Deadlock Gang, into a life that lived outside the law. His hair had grown out to brush the nape of his neck and he’d taken the earrings out after waking up with Doll’s forked tongue damn near down his ear canal as she chased the taste of metal--the taste of blood--one to many times. Taken him longer, still, to realize if given the choice between a hunk of meat and a blood bag, she’d pick the bag.

There was a ramen shop across the street from the castle. McCree eyed it, weighing the pro’s and con’s of letting Doll commit another murder, before turning away. Doll whined.

“No.” McCree said. “Not there. You wanna kill someone, you find yourself an alley.” Doll made a sound of irritation, somewhere between a groan and a growl. McCree tilted his head down and smirked into the neck of his serape, turning down another side road. He silently counted to six before a shadow lunged at Doll. Her scales flared, fire leapt around her charred ribs to lick up her sides, eyes burning from red to blue: fired up. 

They met in a clash of flashing metal and glowing salvia. Doll’s teeth dug into the metal of the demon’s short sword, turning it cherry red. McCree drew Peacekeeper and fired at the demon’s feet, making him dance back, abandoning his blade with Doll or risk losing a toe. 

“Knew that’d get’cha.” McCree said. Doll growled, low and deep and threatening, as she bit down on the sword. The metal bent. The demon’s eyes were pale and glowed faintly, short horns sprouted from his forehead and at the hinge of his jaw, red markings lined the bottom of his eyes, and his hair was black. The demon’s eyes narrowed as he drew another sword. This one was longer. “Spit that out, baby doll. You don’t know where it’s been.” Doll dropped the short sword, stepping forward several steps until she was firmly planted between them.

“Implying I don’t take care of my weapons, Yankee?” The demon hissed.

“Maybe you do and maybe you don’t. I don’t care either way.” McCree brought his gun to bare. “But no one touches my girl without payin’ for it.” He fired. The demon moved so fast he was blur; metal ricocheted off metal with a harsh sound. McCree had clocked Doll once at 140 miles per hour but he would bet his hat that she moved faster as she tackled the demon. He only had time to bring his sword up before Doll collided with him, taking them both to the ground. He landed on his back with Doll pressing down over him, forelegs braced against the sharp edge of the sword--scales flared and protecting the skin beneath--teeth snapping inches from his face, once, twice. 

Strong arms came around McCree like iron bands, one around his shoulders while the other pressed something cold and sharp to the side of his throat. A body pressed itself against his back, warm breath ghosted over his ear when a rough voice growled.

“And nobody touches my brother. Call your dog off.”

“Hound.” McCree corrected by force of habit. “There’s a difference.”

“I don’t care. Call it off.” Doll kept one eye on the demon under her and the other on the demon behind McCree. She opened her mouth to let her tongue loll out, molten saliva trailing down the length of it to hang precariously over her prey’s face: a threat. A promise. The demon’s arms visibly strained against her. McCree wanted to laugh, it’d been a long time since he’d been in a Mexican Standoff, and it made a shiver run up his spine. The knife pressed harder against his neck.

“Looks to me like we all gotta pay the piper. I meant what I said. No one touches my girl.”

“Do not make the mistake of thinking I will simply  _ let _ you harm Genji.”

“And Doll ain’t gonna let you break my skin without burnin’ your kin.” The demon froze. Genji’s eyes darted over McCree’s shoulder and the brothers seemed to speak without words. Doll let the glob of spit edge a little closer to the tips of her tongue. Slowly, the blade lifted away. McCree took a step away from him, returning Peacekeeper to her place against his thigh.

“Simmer down.” He said. Doll swallowed and leapt off Genji to trot to McCree’s side, scales still flared, but her fire died down until her eyes cooled back to hellish red. Genji got to his feet and sheathed his sword, eyes darting from Doll to McCree. He swallowed thickly and licked his lip before walking up to McCree like a man walked to the gallows.

“Ready.” He said. McCree reeled back and punched him in the nose with metal knuckles as hard as he could. Genji recoiled with a howl, hands coming up to his face. A sharp pain in his ribs made McCree grunt. The other demon screamed as Doll jumped up to bite him in the shoulder. Doll yelped when Genji recovered enough to kick her in the side, making her dance back to McCree.

“I do not like this ‘piper’ of yours.” Genji grumbled, still poking at his nose experimentally. 

“No one does. But, it's a dirty job, someone’s gotta do it.” McCree lifted his hand away from his ribs, unsurprised to find blood sticking to the leather of his glove. It’d heal real soon but damn if it didn’t sting to high heaven. “So what the hell were ya’ll doing following us?”

The brothers exchanged another look. Now that he could see the other one, he was broader in the shoulders, hair pulled back into a short tail with flared tuffs around the ears, he only had one set of horns on his forehead that were much longer than his brother’s, red markings sat under his eyes and above his eyebrows. The older one, McCree would guess.

“We were curious as to what you were.” Genji finally said. McCree rolled eyes so hard his head lolled against his shoulders.

“An’ I suppose you couldn’t’ve just come up and said ‘Howdy’?” 

“If you hadn’t made that remark about your dog--”

“Hound!”

“--eating people, we would have!” 

“If you hadn’t jumped up my hound’s ass--”

“Enough! It no longer matters.” The older brother snapped before he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He turned to McCree and bowed shallowly. “I am Shimada Hanzo and this is my younger brother, Genji.”

McCree reluctantly tipped his hat. “Jesse McCree. This is Doll, my Hellhound, and I’ll thank ya kindly for remembering it.” Genji raised an eyebrow, mouthing ‘Hellhound’ to himself.

“Come. Let’s move this somewhere else where we can straighten out this misunderstanding.” Hanzo said. 

_ Yeah, _ McCree thought to himself.  _ And to interrogate me. _ He doubted it would be as pleasant as when the ghost did it.


	15. Murder or Espionage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More time/dimension jumping Hanzo

McCree was bent over a map when the small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He pause in his work and sighed.

“I swear, one of these days, I’m gonna put a bell on you.” McCree grumbled. “How long have you been there?”

“Longer than you would like.” Hanzo said. He was wearing a black shirt proclaiming ‘Yes, your gaydar is accurate’, loose pants tucked into his metal boots, a jacket that appeared to be made out of leather but dyed a truly impressive shade of blue, and had paint on the sharp ridge of his cheekbone just under the eye. McCree’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Why do you have a rainbow on your face?”

“Pride Parade with Genji.”

“Yeah,” McCree drawled. “I’m gonna pretend I know what that is.” The corner of Hanzo’s mouth twitched in that way it did when he was trying to suppress a smile. McCree rolled his eyes and turned back to his work.

“What are you working on?” Hanzo’s boots made little ‘tap tap tapping’ sounds when he walked.

“A kidnapping....kinda. Lady Alice was taken about a fortnight ago and a random note left on her pillow. The guild’s informants and spiders have narrowed her location down to four places.”

“I see. So you’re going to kidnap Alice from her kidnapper. I believe that’s called a ‘rescue mission’--” McCree snorted. People like him didn’t rescue nobody, they just took whatever would get them paid--even if it was a some highborn girl--and cashed in. “And you volunteered to infiltrate...” Hanzo leaned over McCree’s shoulder. “A fortress?” he deadpanned.

“I didn’t volunteer. I drew the short straw--also, could you do me a favor and come to dinner? Olivia, one of our spiders, tried to find some kind of record or even a rumor about you but, wouldn’t you know it, there was nothing. She doesn’t believe you exist and won’t leave me alone about it.”

“Bold of you to assume she will leave you in peace after you prove I do exist.”

McCree paused. “Dammit.” he hissed, with feeling. Hanzo laid a consoling hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“What if I left you my coat? I’m certain she hasn’t seen ‘neon’ before.” McCree sputtered, whipping around fast enough that he made himself dizzy for a brief moment.

“No! Now, I dunno where you come from but here, leather ain’t easy to dye, much less get it  _ that _ blue. That coat is probably worth more than all my maps put together.”

“Fine. Do you at least want help with your fortress?”

* * *

 

“On this week’s episode of ‘Murder or Espionage’.” Genji said in lieu of a greeting. Hanzo could hear him shift through McCree’s copied maps and Hanzo’s schematics that he’d left on his desk. Fool.

“Neither.” Hanzo didn’t look up from the arrow head in his hand. “Simply helping a friend.”

“Uh huh. And is this friend from Nowhere?”

“Obviously.”

“And does Nowhere have many castles?”

“I would assume so.” Genji snatched his phone out of his pocket and shoved it under Hanzo’s nose. 

“I hereby demand pics! Or face my wrath.” Hanzo pushed the phone away with a single finger and turned to regard his brother.

“And what does you wrath look like?”

“I will change every contact in your phone, including ‘Work’, to ‘It’s A Mystery’.”

Hanzo pocketed Genji’s phone.

* * *

 

“What is that?” McCree asked three days later. The sun was setting behind the trees, casting them in their long shadows. The fortress was up ahead, walls and watchtowers looming over the land. Hanzo sent him a  _ look _ . McCree put his hands up. “Ok, fine, can I at least ask ‘why’?”

“Because I value my contacts list.” Hanzo’s thumb flew across the green block in his hand before putting it away. Tonight he was dressed in a stiff, black tank top that had a high collar, ending at his jaw-- _kevlar_ \--a hard mask that was molded to his face-- _reinforced_ _plastic--_ hair pulled back, pants looser than McCree had yet to see them and if it weren’t for the thick cord around his hips, he was certain they wouldn’t stay up at all. McCree couldn’t help admiring the bow on his back.

_ She got a name? _

_ Stormbow. _

“So...Do you have something against sleeves?” McCree asked, gesturing to Hanzo and then himself. He was wearing his full leathers: gloves, bracers, long sleeves, thick double-layered jerkin, buckled tight, knee guards and tall boots, long hair tied back.

“No, but they have a negative effect on my aim at long range.”

McCree sighed. “Right. I’ll pretend I know the word ‘negative’.”

“A poor effect on my aim at long range.”

“Thank you.” 

Together, they waited for full twilight before moving. McCree’s jaw dropped as Hanzo took a full running start up the stone wall and then  _ climbed _ it using only his boots and fingertips. He was forced to wait at the bottom for Hanzo to drop a rope, which he did in short order. McCree took hold of it and carefully set his weight to it, giving Hanzo enough time to brace himself, and then he started climbing.

* * *

 

McCree grit his teeth. Lady Alice had made a home on his nerves about five minutes after meeting her and she hadn’t left.

“I’m hungry.”

“I’m cold.”

“I want my dog.”

“How much longer?”

“This place smells musty.”

Hanzo, bless him, could have left at anytime but he hadn’t. McCree didn’t know if it was because he didn’t want anyone else knowing he was magic or if he was simply refusing to leave McCree to this hell. Either way, he was going to pay him back somehow. Hanzo was leaning against the wall, thick arms crossed, tattoo exposed, with his black eyes narrowed dangerously from over his mask. With that bow slung over his shoulder, he looked like a warrior--worthy of a painting. McCree turned away and tried not to think to hard on that, choosing instead to rearrange his maps; flipping some of them over entirely. 

“What is this place?” Lady Alice asked, fiddling with her necklace.

“It is exactly what it appears to be.” Hanzo said, voice hard. A truth, though not a fulfilling one. Back to the prickly bastard he’d been when McCree met him. 

“What’s your name? I’ve never seen a man with such delicate eyes. Where are you from? Come, take your mask off and tell me of it. I bet you’re really handsome.”

“You wouldn’t be able to properly pronounce my name.”

“Oh, let me try. I’m told I have a talent for different tongues.” Lady Alice licked the corner of her lip. McCree laid his forehead against the wood of his desk.

“Oh, dear lord.” He grumbled. Hanzo stared her down, unblinking. It was a little unsettling. Lady Alice wilted under the weight of it, averting her eyes and blushing with the force of her embarrassment.

“Dear. Lord.” McCree said again. 

It was shaping up to be a very long wait until Gabriel came to collect Lady Alice.


	16. Another One Bites The Dust

The skull shattered under the force of McCree’s hands--his bandanna was pulled down around his neck, freeing the beast in his head from its cage--the brain was the best part, so that’s what he ate first. Hanzo crossed his arms and let the zombie feed. Around them, another village had been taken by his plague. The people had panicked like frightened cattle, stampeding over their neighbors and lashing out. Hanzo eyed the corpse of a dead woman with a knife in her chest. Most of the villagers hadn’t succumbed to the plague at all. 

Behind him, another bone cracked, and then there was the sound of skin and muscle tearing. Hanzo had to wonder when such sounds stopped making him cringe. But even so, Hanzo kept his distance and stayed as still as possible to avoid provoking McCree’s instinct to  _ hunt _ \--to not just be fed like an exotic pet.

McCree stripped the corpse of its brain, bone marrow, and internal organs before he moved on to the next one. His steps were long but shuffling, spurs making more noise than they had when he was alive. Hanzo wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed his eyes shut, after all these years, his first victim was still following him: was still a stalwart companion. What had he done to deserve it? Even in this half-life he was forced to live, McCree was a better man than Hanzo would ever be. Of that, he was as certain as he was that the sky was blue and that the sun would rise.

“Goddamnit, Han,” McCree growled. “I’ve told you before. Don’t turn your back on me when I’m  _ not _ me.” Hanzo did not turn around.

“I was watching you. Don’t worry.”

“Really?”

_ No. _

“Yes.”

“Bullshit. Y’ain’t got eyes in the back of your head.”

Hanzo turned around. McCree had pulled the bandanna back over his nose, putting the beast in its cage and hiding the ravaged mess of his cheeks and jaw. He was covered in filth and gore. Hanzo ignored it all.

“Are you finished, then?”

“If you’d been keepin’ an eye on me, you’d know I was.” McCree lumbered over to Hanzo, steps slow, long, and threatening, green eyes narrowed; angry. “Just as you’d know that I almost attacked you. God _ damn _ it, Han. What if I had?”

“You didn’t.”

“If. I. Had. What then? What the hell would I do with myself then?”

“Nothing.” Hanzo reached up to fix the bandanna and then ran his fingers through McCree’s pale hair. “You cannot infect me, McCree.”

“Maybe not. But I can still tear you apart.”

“You won’t, because I will always watch you.”

“No,” McCree sighed. “You won’t.”

“No,” Hanzo agreed. “I won’t.” 


	17. When The World Ended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world may have ended but it didn't stop turning. That sounds very angsty but its not. I swear. More like two wolf bois travel the world and then meet up to talk about it.

The world died a long time ago, city lights snuffed out like a candle--there and gone in a blink. No one knew why and no one knew how and humanity was left to either die or turn to other means of survival. They made deals with the powers that be and slowly, slowly, humanity as it had been ceased to exist. From the ashes, beasts like them emerged.

McCree ran through the forest, long legs and springing spine ate up the ground and carried him from clearing to clearing, field to field, in the time it took for the rising sun to reach its zenith. When he found the ancient road, it was little more than a game trail; winding up and up and up the mountain side. With the stone cliff face at his side and the valley far below, McCree tried to imagine this road filled with cars and couldn’t. This was no place for humanity’s machines, trying to fathom one here was akin to thinking a whale belonged in space.

When the ground leveled out, McCree found himself on a plateau of sorts. From here, if he kept going, the mountain would slope, just slightly, down until it reached a lake cradled deep in a valley that’d been carved out by the water itself. Trout used the shallow water to spawn during the spring and brought bears by the dozens. McCree hooked a left and hugged another cliff face. Here, the trail was so thin that his paws only had about five inches of spare room--enough to travel along but not enough to keep the vague sense of vertigo at bay. This trail wound back around the road he’d followed before cutting into the mountain sharply, opening up into another grassy shelf and, beyond, into a field.

It's here that McCree finally stopped running to shift skins. The air was cool at this elevation but not cold. He couldn’t sweat as a wolf but he would soon, now that he wasn’t wearing his pelt. McCree let his knees give out and then fell backwards to lay on his back. It was like waiting to slowly cook from the inside. His body may have changed but it took a moment for his insides to figure it out and make the switch. McCree’s mouth was flooded with saliva so he kept it open and let himself drool, chest rising and falling as he panted. But then sweat abruptly broke out along his back, hairline, armpits, and along his chest. His mouth dried out.

McCree spat and laid prone as he fought to get his breath back, eyes closed.

He was left to his own for a good while before the wind blew and carried Hanzo’s scent with it. McCree smiled but stayed where he was.

“Jesse.” McCree tracked Hanzo by the sound of his bare feet on the grass. Long, calloused, fingers carded through his damp hair. “Did you run the entire way?”

“You know I did.” McCree caught Hanzo’s hand and pressed a whiskery kiss to the rough palm. “Just as I know you’ve been here three days early.”

“Hnn.” McCree felt Hanzo sit down next to him and then a hand was in his hair again. “Where did the world take you, this time?”

McCree finally opened his eyes. Hanzo was put together and well groomed, as always, dark eyes as soft as they ever got, hair as sleek and shiny as his pelt. It was good to see him so relaxed.

“Into the desert and then out to the prairies. Across the hard rock of a lava flow, and down into a cave system--there was this part, real early on, that was kinda like a slide. The rock was smooth like lots of people had been there before and it was wet. Damn near knocked myself out on the ceiling.” McCree chuckled. “What about you, sweetheart? Where’ve you been?”

“It is a fine thing that your skull is so thick.” Hanzo said.

“Excuse you.”

“I’ve been in the mountains, so high that the snow never melts. I explored a ruined Human city not long ago and found the corpses of strange figures made of metal. Some were slight and some where not and all of them appeared to be made in the image of man. I was hard pressed to find one that had more than two arms and wasn’t bipedal. After that I found an underground river and followed it until I found a cave alight with thousands of blue glow worms and then, further still, there were birds that made nests out of their own saliva.”

“Bullshit.”

“Its true! They were such a deep blue that they appeared black.”

“Nah, I meant the metal men. Bull and shit.” Hanzo tugged on McCree’s hair with a growl that was more vibration than sound: irritated but in good humor.

“They had slits for eyes and lights on their foreheads. One had rabbit ears.” McCree raised an eyebrow. “When we are done here, I’ll show you.” Hanzo shifted around until he could pillow his head on McCree’s shoulder, half laying on top of him, skin to skin, and pressed a kiss to his throat.

“Sounds like a plan.” McCree kissed Hanzo’s forehead and curled his arm around his broad shoulders to trace the yellow ink on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCree is talking about the Craters of the Moon and the Lewis and Clark cavern's duck slide. The bird Hanzo is talking about is the Swiftlet. People actually make soup out of their nests.


	18. The Haunted Oak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by 'The Haunted Oak' by Paul Laurence Dunbar. The "Mother" that McCree refers to is Mother Earth.

In the distance, the sound of galloping hooves made dread crawl up his throat and his branches shuttered as a shiver crawled up his spine. The townsfolk only paid him and his forest a visit when they had someone to hang outside the law’s approval. He looked up at the moon, and wondered who would die tonight.The riders drew close, close, closer, until he could see them in detail. Three men and their prisoner. The horses panted, warm breath fogging the air in front of their faces in the chilled night. The judge wore a black mask and the doctor one of white. The third man, he couldn’t identify but he would guess he would be the hangman. It didn’t matter--wouldn’t matter, in a few minutes--things that mattered in life turned to dust in death.

He watched as the three men dismounted and then drug their prisoner from his own horse. With his hands tied behind his back, his balance was off and he couldn’t get his feet under himself fast enough. McCree winced as he hit the ground, shoulder blades first. There was a brief moment where his head tilted back and McCree could see his face: delicate eyes, lit with rage and fear, aristocratic nose with traces of blood, lip pulled up into a snarl, and then he was yanked to his feet. 

McCree’s branches swayed in a nonexistent wind. That man was as innocent as he was foreign, which was to say ‘very much so’, he was certain of it. No guilty man ever had that much fear in him at the final moments leading up to his death; only a deep understanding that he had it coming. McCree was aware that the men were talking but he ignored them, instead he reached for the forest, feeling the animals within and called to them with desperation in his core and rage in his bark. The birds startled and took flight, flocking together with loud sounds of anger. The voices rose to shouting, the judge’s voice climbed above the others to deliver his sentence, black book in hand with that strange golden cross on the cover.

The wolves snarled, the mice and voles and snakes reared up with a hiss. The wild cats yowled. The deer and elk snorted and stomped. McCree’s branches whipped the air hard enough that he lost some leaves, and the wood groaned. He could see them, the birds, rising from the tree tops--so many that they blocked out the stars.

The judge closed his book with a ‘snap’ and pushed the man with delicate eyes towards McCree as the third man reached into his saddlebag for a long piece of rope. McCree pulled at his creatures harder, urgently, as his blood boiled. The hangman tied the noose and threw the end over a branch. McCree grit his teeth at the feeling of it against his bark. It was a cruel thing and he hated it. The prisoner was grabbed roughly and pushed and shoved into place. He thrashed and fought, kicking and digging his heels in. McCree thrashed with him, shaking the noose like a whip until it was ripped from the hangman’s grip.

He took some pleasure in their sudden attention and even more vindicated glee when they realized the wind was not speaking. McCree knew he was breaking the ancient rules, but he didn’t care, as long as they focused on him then they couldn’t focus on their victim. McCree would deal with Mother later, but right now this man needed him, and he was confident that he could withstand her rage. 

He could feel them, the deer and elk and wolves and big cats, deep in his roots as the ground shook with the force of their feet. He stopped shaking, exhausted, and in the silence he could hear the birds. The were crying and shouting; the megaflock blocked out the moon and sounded like a hurricane. 

“What in God’s name?” The judge asked as all four men gaped at the birds. The horses snorted and tossed their heads, yanking on their reins and the branch they were tied to. The birds grew louder as the ground shook harder, fine tremors vibrating up the roots and shaking the leaves on every tree and bush. McCree stayed still. The humans scanned their surroundings franticly, in that way things did when they’re afraid. McCree spoke, wood groaning and then the birds dove. The aimed for the three McCree pointed to, pecking and clawing at exposed skin and vulnerable eyes. The townsmen flailed and shouted while the innocent man fell to his knees and curled around himself in a protective ball. 

The horses bucked and screamed but couldn’t flee. When the rodents came, McCree directed them to the innocent man’s bonds. He flinched at the feeling of their small paws and sharp claws crawling over his body but didn’t thrash, not even when the mass of the swarm pushed him the rest of the way down into the dirt. The wolves and big cats and hooved creatures came and McCree kept them away from the rodents. The forest was filled with a cacophony of horrible, ugly, sounds. When the screaming stopped, when all was still and silent, McCree raised his weary head.

_ Go _ . He said.  _ Go back to your dens and burrows. Go home. _ One by one the animals listened and dispersed. Slowly, hesitantly, the man pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. The wolves had killed the horses while the hooved creatures trampled the executioners and left only corpses and gore behind. The man took in the blood and ripped flesh, the churned earth, and then McCree’s oak tree with a slow, methodical eye, despite his trembling. But then he did something McCree wasn’t expecting--something that hadn’t been done in his general direction for thousands of years--the man bowed low; hands flat and forehead touching dirt. He spoke in a language McCree didn’t understand but it flowed like liquid from his lips and the feeling behind them was easy to decipher. 

With a groan, McCree pulled himself from the core of the tree until the bark shed off him like a second skin and let him stand before the mortal man as he truly was: an ancient spirit of the land. His cloak of oak leaves rustled when he moved.

“Up.” He whispered. “The gallows is no place to linger.” 

“I will never forget this.” The man said as he looked up at McCree. There was dirt on his cheek and forehead but he didn’t seem to care. His skin was pale and his breathing came out uneven. McCree reached inside his cloak and pulled out the pelt of a white wolf, it had been an enormous creature when it had roamed through McCree’s forest, and from snout to tail it was nearly as long as this man was tall. McCree threw it around the man’s shoulders.

“Look after yourself. Now, go. You do not belong standing in death’s shadow.” McCree could still feel the rough rope of the noose around the branch as if it was chafing against the skin of his arm. The man bowed again, low and deep, before he turned and started walking away. McCree sighed, leaning back until his back hit the bark of the oak. It was easier than breathing to let himself sink back into the core of the tree.

The following year, the man came back with a knife and cut the noose from McCree.

The year after that, he came back with a wolf puppy. It was small and underfed, despite the man’s best efforts. McCree called to the wolves and they answered.

It was several years after that that McCree learned the man’s name was Hanzo. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pray why are you so bare, so bare,  
> Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;  
> And why, when I go through the shade you throw,  
> Runs a shudder over me?
> 
> My leaves were green as the best, I trow,  
> And sap ran free in my veins,  
> But I say in the moonlight dim and weird  
> A guiltless victim's pains.
> 
> I bent me down to hear his sigh;  
> I shook with his gurgling moan,  
> And I trembled sore when they rode away,  
> And left him here alone.
> 
> They'd charged him with the old, old crime,  
> And set him fast in jail:  
> Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,  
> And why does the night wind wail?
> 
> He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,  
> And he raised his hand to the sky;  
> But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,  
> And the steady tread drew nigh.
> 
> Who is it rides by night, by night,  
> Over the moonlit road?  
> And what is the spur that keeps the pace,  
> What is the galling goad?
> 
> And now they beat at the prison door,  
> "Ho, keeper, do not stay!  
> We are friends of him whom you hold within,  
> And we fain would take him away
> 
> "From those who ride fast on our heels  
> With mind to do him wrong;  
> They have no care for his innocence,  
> And the rope they bear is long."
> 
> They have fooled the jailer with lying words,  
> They have fooled the man with lies;  
> The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,  
> And the great door open flies.
> 
> Now they have taken him from the jail,  
> And hard and fast they ride,  
> And the leader laughs low down in his throat,  
> As they halt me trunk beside.
> 
> Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black,  
> And the doctor one of white,  
> And the minister, with his oldest son,  
> Was curiously bedight.
> 
> Oh, foolish man, why weep you now?  
> 'Tis but a little space,  
> And the time will come when these shall dread  
> The mem'ry of your face.
> 
> I feel the rope against my bark,  
> And the weight of him in my grain,  
> I feel in the throe of his final woe  
> The touch of my own last pain.
> 
> And never more shall leaves come forth  
> On the bough that bears the ban;  
> I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,  
> From the curse of a guiltless man.
> 
> And ever the judge rides by, rides by,  
> And goes to hunt the deer,  
> And ever another rides his soul  
> In the guise of a mortal fear.
> 
> And ever the man he rides me hard,  
> And never a night stays he;  
> For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,  
> On the trunk of a haunted tree.


	19. 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ITS 11:32 I AIN'T LATE YET!!
> 
> Also it's titled '101' because that's the temp. of my mother's hot tub

McCree’s tools made a soft sound of metal on metal as he worked to pick the lock, his fingers delicately twisting this way then that as he felt along the inside of the mechanism. After a moment the lock gave with a satisfying ‘click’ and McCree eased it open. The hotspring bubbled and gurgled, steam rising from the water to float like a wraith up to the ceiling. Behind him, Hanzo hummed appreciatively before stepping past him.

Between the two of them, the Faren Manor had been cake to break into. Easier, still, to find the underground spring that the Lord had built his house around.The guards were at their posts, bored and playing cards or drunk and losing at cards--unaware of the two young men treading where they shouldn’t.

McCree made sure to lock the door behind him before putting the picks away in his belt pouch and turned around, mouth open to speak, only to stop dead. Hanzo had already stripped down to the waist, powerful shoulders cast in enough shadow to accentuate the dips and valleys that lead down his spine. Hanzo didn’t so much as hesitate in his stride as he undid the ties of his pants, let them fall down his thick thighs, before stepping out of them as smooth as you please.

“Holy shit.” McCree breathed. “That has got to be the smoothest strip I have ever seen. How many times have you practiced that?”

“Get in the water, rogue.” Hanzo smirked over his shoulder as he stepped into the spring, water kissing up his legs to his hips and then the small of his back.

“Its ‘Outlaw’ and I’ll thank ya kindly to remember it.” McCree got to work on the buckles of his leather armor and then the ties of his clothes before reaching up to take the crimson ribbon from his hair. It was longer than what was deemed a proper, respectable length by his culture’s standards but horribly short by Hanzo’s, coming down to kiss an inch or so below the tops of his shoulders. It’d been short, once, but McCree didn’t have a preference one way or the other--so long as he could keep it out of his eyes. 

“Do rogues not operate outside the law?”

“Oh, they do. Just not like _ we _ do.” McCree stepped into the spring, it was hot enough that his toes felt like pins and needles had been stabbed into them for a short second.

“Yes, because this..” Hanzo gestured to the cave with its stone shelves full of towels and expensive oils, and carpeted floor. “...Is a fine use of our skill.”

“You complainin’?”

“Hmm.” Reaching out, Hanzo grabbed a strand of McCree’s hair with his fingertips and used it to tug him forward until they were forehead to forehead. His lips brushed against McCree’s when he spoke. “No. I am not.” He said and kissed him. There was nothing chaste about it as Hanzo licked his way past McCree’s teeth, tangling his fingers into the back of his head and using his grip to keep him in place, his other hand went to McCree’s ribs. He didn’t have to hold him very hard. McCree settled his hands on Hanzo’s back, groping the thick muscle there and giving his tongue a strong suck. Hanzo’s breath hitched, his grip tightened fractionally. 

“Do you know what my favorite part of a man is?” Hanzo asked when he finally pulled away.

“What, ya mean his dick?”

“No.” Hanzo snorted, hand trailing feather light from McCree’s ribs to settle below his navel in the middle of the deep ‘V’ of his groin. “Right here.” McCree’s breath had grown heavy and a little uneven.

“Yeah,” He grinned with one side of his mouth, almost a smirk but not. “Why’s that?”

“Because I can do this...” Hanzo pet down making something hot coil in McCree’s belly and his cock stiffen. “Or I can do this.” then his hand was stroking up to his navel, away from where he wanted it. McCree swallowed thickly. “And with enough pressure...” Hanzo pressed down gently, the sudden weight of his hand was grounding but then his thumb rubbed in small circles and it grew calming. “This is my favorite spot because I can make you feel so much with so little.”

“Sweetheart, you could make a man feel any damn thing with just your eyes.” Hanzo smirked, dark eyes glinting with wicked promise. “Yeah,” McCree licked his lip. “Just like that.” and groaned as Hanzo’s hand trailed back down; calloused fingertips dragging hot lines of fire. 

McCree kissed him, forcing his tongue into Hanzo’s mouth, hands finally working as he pet along Hanzo’s back, down to his hips to pull him forward. Velvet skin brushed against velvet skin, making Hanzo inhale unsteadily and McCree huff. Slow and sweet took a head dive out the window. Hands grabbed and pulled, mouths bruised and teeth nipping at skin, tongues laving at the little hurts, breathing heavy and uneven. Finally Hanzo pushed McCree backwards, following him closely, until he had him pinned against the side of the spring, skin to skin from chest to knees, strong hand wrapped around them and working at a hard pace.

Sparks of electricity raced up and down McCree’s spine as his lungs worked like the bellows in a forge. Hot puffs of air caressed his face as Hanzo panted into his open mouth, kissing him when he had the breath before pulling away again. McCree thumbed at Hanzo’s sharp hip bones, and pulled then pushed away only to pull forward again, encouraging him into a rhythm. Hanzo followed his lead, timing his hand with McCree’s tugging. The sparks turned into licks of flame. With a grunt, McCree bit his lip, achingly aware that sound liked to echo across stone. 

Hanzo ducked his head to bite the thick muscle where neck met shoulder and twisted his wrist. McCree jerked, hips thrusting half a dozen times before he came with a bitten off moan, thighs trembling. Hanzo took a minute more, less sensitive to his own hand, and buried his groan in the long line of McCree’s throat.

“Ok.” McCree said when he’d gotten his breath back. “Breaking into the Faron Manor for a dip in the hot springs has got to be one of your better ideas.”

Hanzo chuckled, shoulders shaking. 

“What?”

“No one will believe that it was my idea.”

“....You son of a bitch.”


	20. Cauldron Bubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more Doll vers

The great cauldron was several dozens of feet tall and just as wide. It stood suspended by enchanted chains that did not bend nor bow under its weight but stood strong as if they were poles of Damascus steel. Fire tongues of flame licked up the sides while toxic sludge peppered with charred skulls bubbled and boiled and dripped over the sides. The platform was ringed with an iron rail and floated above it all. Here, McCree sat with his legs between the support rails with Doll in his lap. He hugged her to his chest to prevent her from exploring and poking her nose where it didn’t belong. This place was old and nothing had been moved nor added nor removed from it in a long time.

“Are you cold?” Gabriel asked, throwing another ingredient into the cauldron before giving McCree a look of concern over his shoulder. McCree sighed. He knew what he looked like: less than a man but more than a boy, age nineteen, pierced ears, hair styled so that the back was shorter than the front, and only one arm. He looked like someone who was too young to have seen the things he’d seen. Gabriel’s heart went out to that, he supposed.

“I’m fine.” He said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.” Gabriel turned about to his cauldron, dug around the various potions stuff he had on hand, and threw something else in. The magic swirled around each other before they blended. Another skull fizzled into existence, its teeth were dull.  _ Human _ , McCree guessed. It opened its jaws and screamed, causing the other skulls to scream with it. The sound had Doll’s floppy ears perking up, eyes glowing hot, hot, hotter, to a deep blue. McCree hugged her tighter, clamping his hand around her snout to keep her from howling. Just because Gabriel couldn't see her didn’t mean he wouldn’t hear her. Him and ever other Hellhound in the area.

“Is it supposed to be screaming like that?” McCree asked. In his lap, Doll squirmed and pawed at his hand, trying to push him away.

“Yeah. It’s not actually the skulls screaming, it's the magic build up--like when you cook a lobster.” 

“Sure.” When the screaming stopped, Gabriel carefully filled two coffee mugs from the cauldron. The platform he was on floated up to be level with McCree’s. 

“Here.” Gabriel said and handed McCree one of the cups. Doll hadn’t stopped squirming. McCree didn’t take the cup. Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “Does it hurt?” He asked and nodded at McCree’s stump.

“Nah. Just ain’t sure what's in that cup, is all.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Its like hot chocolate.”

“‘Like’?” 

“Just put it in your mouth and enjoy it.” Gabriel thrust the cup at McCree, forcing him to take it or let it drop into his lap.

“That’s what she said.” McCree mumbled behind the rim of the cup. Doll wiggled out of his lap making McCree hiss at her. Gabriel raised an eyebrow. McCree ducked his head. “‘S hot is all.” he said. Doll went to the edge of the platform to stare down at the cooling cauldron and McCree tired not to make it too obvious that he was watching her.

Gabriel sighed heavily. “The hell happen to you to make you so damn jumpy?” 

Doll’s rat-thin tail started wagging. McCree took a sip of his ‘like-hot-chocolate’ and prayed to God that Gabriel never found out.


	21. It Made A Difference To That One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cus yall know damn well that modern medicine is head and shoulders above the medieval crap.

Hanzo grit his teeth and was forced to be grateful for his tutelage in the art of the business--taught to kill, taught to wound, taught to keep a man alive while he bargained for a longer life until he begged for a quicker death. When Hanzo had laid down on his bed that afternoon, he’d thought he’d open his eyes to McCree’s little workshop. But, he’d been wrong. He manifested in a different room, one he’d never been in before. It had two short rows of beds with shelves filled with various jars and what passed for bandages. A hospital? And then sound finally filtered in.

Hanzo turned towards the shouting. There was a dark skinned man laying in one of the beds, a woman with red hair was bent over him, working franctacily with blood staining her skin up to her elbows, while another woman with dark hair stood still. She was shouting at the redhead, gesturing wildly and her voice was choked with encroaching tears . McCree was pacing, running his hands through his hair every other step, mumbling to himself.

Hanzo left. He sprang out of bed, pushing the dizziness aside and ran to the bathroom. He washed all the way up to his elbows, and then dug around for his kit. When he went back, the scene was the same. Hanzo strode forward before the sound could register again. The man was in very bad shape; battered, bruised, bleeding, and even burnt--recently tortured. The redhead was doing what she could but Hanzo knew it wouldn’t be enough--not with the tools she had.

“Step aside.” Hanzo said, voice even, calm, but laced with enough command that anyone listening would know that he expected to be obeyed.

“Han!” McCree said at the same time the woman with dark hair shouted, “Who the hell!?” at the same time the doctor snarled at him. Hanzo ignored them all and got to work. For a moment there was nothing but stunned silence and then McCree was moving. He tugged the doctor away to give Hanzo space despite her fighting against him.

“Han.”

Hanzo checked the man’s pupils, his heartbeat, before he undid the bandages that were already in place, throwing them over his shoulder, and cleaned them out.

“Han!”

Hanzo took a length of stretching rubber and bound it tight against the femoral artery, gritting his teeth, he reset the man’s femur, grunting with the effort.

“Hanzo!” McCree shouted. Hanzo turned to McCree.

“Nani!?”

McCree looked terrible, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, hair wild from his own fingers, and yet, there was hope in his eyes.

“Can you save him? Because if you can’t, then I ain’t sure anyone can. An’ if you can’t, you need to tell us that so we can end his sufferin’. _Please._ ”

Hanzo stared at McCree, face as stoic as he could make it in that moment. Could he save this man? With enough time, with the correct equipment, yes. Easily. With what he had on hand? The dragons nipped at the back of his mind. He could--he _would_.

“Splint that.” Hanzo ordered, moving on to the next wound. He needed to get the bleeding to stop, he needed to know where the internal bleeding was, and he was forced to be thankful that he knew how. The doctor was watching him now, a strange light in her eye, but she did as he said. For hours, he worked: draining, cleaning, bandaging, resetting, and stitching.

Then, suddenly, the man stopped breathing. Hanzo checked his pulse and found nothing. Hanzo’s heart was in his throat, trying to choke him, but he swallowed it down as best he could.

“You,” He told him, setting his hand to the man’s chest. “Are not allowed to leave your friends. Not yet.” The dragons shocked him: the best defibrillator he had. Blue lightning arched from shoulder, to elbow, to wrist, and jumped into the man’s chest. The shock jerked him off the bed.

“Jesus!”

“Fuck!”

No heartbeat. Hanzo did it again. Still nothing so, he did it again. _There_. A pulse, it was weak but there. Hanzo pressed down hard, then eased up, gently reminding the man to breathe. He did. When it was over, his kit was drained--he was drained--blood stained his hands, under his nails, and over his chest and stomach. Another shirt ruined. But the man would make it to see another tomorrow.

Hanzo stood straight,  his back ached, and his fingers felt cramped. He sighed, head lolling against his shoulders to work the kinks out.

“Who are you?” Hanzo didn't bother looking over his shoulder, simply started packing his kit.

“Remember the wizard I was talking about?”

“Yeah, that guy you made up?”

“I didn’t make him up.”

“I went _looking_ , Jesse. I found _nothing_. Ergo, he doesn’t exist.”

“I assure you, Olivia, I exist.” Hanzo said, finally turning around. Olivia’s dark eyes narrowed, hatefully. Hanzo couldn’t blame her, fear had a certain way of becoming anger. “And I am almost everything McCree told you I was.”

Hanzo left.

He came back to himself slowly, body heavy like lead had replaced the blood in his body. Groaning, he forced himself to sit up and take the near-empty kit back to the bathroom. He threw his shirt into the trash and washed the blood off his hands. The pill bottle next to the sink caught his eye. Hydrocodone. He’d stolen it some time ago--so long ago that he couldn’t remember exactly why-- and never got around to flushing them. The bottle was 3/4th full. Sighing, body heavy and mentally exhausted, Hanzo took the hottest shower he could stand.

When he got out, he took the pill bottle back to his room, where he dressed in the most comfortable clothes he owned: a grey long-sleeved shirt that fell loosely across the chest and a pair of sweatpants. He face planted his bed and closed his eyes.

This time, he manifested exactly where he thought he would: McCree’s room. McCree was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Hanzo waited a moment before he tapped the toe of his prosthetic against the wall. Knock, knock. McCree tensed but then, a few seconds later, he relaxed again.

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” He said. Hanzo went to him, stopping within easy reach, and took the bottle from his pocket.

“I forgot to give you these.” McCree looked up. “Hydrocodone. It’ll ease your man’s pain. Have him take one every twelve hours.” He took them from Hanzo, slowly, almost hesitantly. As if he was expecting Hanzo to offer a patch job and nothing more. Hanzo watched as he crumpled, tears gathering in his eyes. He cupped the back of McCree’s neck and pulled him in until he could bury his face against Hanzo’s stomach.

“Gabriel. His names Gabriel...I almost....I almost lost him.” McCree’s breath hitched, arms coming around Hanzo to grab fistfulls of his clothes.

“But you didn’t.”

“Almost....almost...Knew you’d come....You always do.” Hanzo didn’t have the heart to tell him that he almost didn’t. Instead, he held McCree for a long time. “Thank you.” McCree said, voice breathy.

“Thank me when he is walking again.”

“He will, though, won’t he? His leg was so damn bad.”

“He should, if he doesn’t try to rush the healing process and takes it slow. Build the muscle back up a little at a time.”

McCree nodded. “Yeah...Yeah okay. I’ll make sure of it.” He looked up at Hanzo then, eyes red and irritated. “Will you...could you. Will you stay tonight?”

Hanzo smiled as gently as he knew how, pushing McCree away until he was laying down and crawled in after him.

“I cannot stay. When I lose concentration this...” Hanzo gestured to himself. “...spell breaks.”

“As long as ya can, then.” McCree tugged and prodded him until he was laying with his head on McCree’s chest.

“As long as I can.” Hanzo said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The old man replied, 'But there must be tens of thousands of starfish on this beach. I'm afraid you won't really be able to make much of a difference.'
> 
> The boy bent down, picked up yet another starfish and threw it as far as he could into the ocean. Then he turned, smiled and said, 'It made a difference to that one.' "
> 
> The Starfish Thrower  
> \--Loren Eiseley


	22. It Made A Difference To Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> same thing as yesterday just from McCree's pov because exactly one person asked for it.

Gabriel had been missing for several days before they finally found him and brought him home to the guild’s halls. The rival guild had done so much damage, McCree wasn’t sure Moira would be able to save him. McCree paced, raking his fingers through his hair. He wanted to kill someone--wanted to wage a war that would wipe the Crows off the city map. He wanted it so bad, his hands shook with it.

Moira didn’t care how much pain Gabriel was in, simply got to work on him, until his screams cut off when he finally passed out. McCree paced. Olivia did not move from her spot as she yelled at Moria, hands gesturing aggressively. 

“Be careful with him! He’s had enough!” Moria ignored her. McCree grit his teeth, balled his hands into fight fists, pacing, pacing, pacing. His anger was rising, chest aching as it fought between the very real possibility that Gabriel would die from this and the hope that Hanzo would show up to save him. Hanzo  _ had _ to show up. He always did. This would be no different. Hanzo would come, he would heal Gabriel, and McCree wouldn’t have to say ‘goodbye’ to the only real father he’s known.

“C’mon, Han.” He mumbled to himself. “Now would be a really good time. Need to put a bell on him.” McCree ran his fingers through his hair again. “C’mon, c’mon, don’t get shy on me now. I really need you here.”

As if by the grace of God himself.

“Step aside.” 

McCree startled and whipped around. “Han!”

“Who the hell!?” Olivia shouted, hand going for the dagger hidden in her belt. Moria snarled at Hanzo--no one disrupted her work. But Hanzo, bless him, ignored them all and made a beeline for Gabriel. He set a medium sized metal box down, left it open, and got to work. For several stunned seconds, no one moved, but then Moria opened her mouth and McCree jumped forward to pull her away. Predictably, she fought him every step of the way.

“Han.” McCree said but went ignored. Hanzo pried Gabriel’s eye open, then put two fingers against the man’s neck, high against the hinge of his jaw, before he started undoing the bandages that Moira had done. He threw them over his shoulder carelessly. Reaching into the box, he pulled out a black bottle and dumped a hefty amount of clear liquid onto a white cloth to clean out Gabriel’s wounds. 

“Han!” 

Hanzo took a length of something that was off yellow and bound it high on Gabriel’s broken leg, almost to his family jewels. McCree caught the jump of muscle in Hanzo’s jaw as he grit his teeth when he reset the bone with a grunt and the sound of bone on bone. McCree tried not to flinch at the sound. Adrenaline had his heart trying to beat out of his chest and his breathing was quicker than it should’ve been. He ran his hand through his hair again, giving the longer strands at the back a forceful tug.

“Hanzo!” McCree shouted. Hanzo turned to him with dark eyes blazing.

“Nani!?” He did not shout but the steel in his voice was enough. McCree looked at him; no sleeves, no surprise, hair pulled back, steady hands stained red. His wizard had never failed him before and McCree needed him to succeed now. But if he couldn’t....

“Can you save him?” Because if you can’t, then I ain’t sure anyone can. An’ if you can’t, you need to tell us that so we can end his sufferin’.  _ Please _ .” 

...then he’d deal with that. He’d set the Crows on fire just as they’d done to Gabriel. Hell, when they got there, would look like paradise compared to the ruin McCree would visit upon them. Hanzo stared at him, face blank.

“Splint that.” He ordered and moved on to the next wound. Moira stepped forward with something strange in her eye and did as he asked. For hours, Hanzo worked. McCree tried not to pace again. Olivia shifted from foot to foot. Only Hanzo spoke, giving Moira direction every so often. 

McCree was so focused on Hanzo that he didn’t know Gabriel had stopped breathing until his wizard placed his hand on his chest and  _ shocked _ him. Blue light jumped from his shoulder and down to his wrist. Gabriel’s body jerked off the bed. McCree knew Hanzo was powerful--somewhere in the back of his head--but to  _ see _ it sent a jolt of fear down his spine.

“Jesus!”

“Fuck!”

Hanzo did it again and then once more. McCree’s breath left him when he saw Gabriel’s chest rise on its own, knees suddenly weak. When Hanzo was done, Gabriel looked like a corpse; skin pale, breathing shallow, and wrapped in so many stark white bandages that they made a fair imitation of a burial shroud. 

“Who are you?” Olivia demanded. Hanzo did not turn around to look at her, just as McCree knew he wouldn’t. The man’s shoulders were slumped--clearly exhausted--but force of habit had his back remaining ramrod straight as he put his things back into the metal box.

“Remember that wizard I was talking about?’ McCree asked.

“Yeah, that guy you made up?”

“I didn’t make him up.”

“I went  _ looking _ , Jesse. I found  _ nothing _ . Ergo, he doesn’t exist.”

“I assure you, Olivia, I exist.” Hanzo said, finally turning around. Olivia’s dark eyes narrowed hatefully. McCree almost reached out to grab her wrist--to stop her from reaching for that dagger again--but she didn’t go for it. “And I am almost everything McCree told you I was.”

_Almost_? McCree’s brow furrowed with confusion but Hanzo had already left. Leaving only empty space and the best healing McCree had ever seen in his wake. Olivia visibly startled at his sudden disappearance, jaw dropping to gape. Moira inspected Hanzo’s work with a critical eye. 

“This...wizard. Tell me about him.” She said--demanded. McCree’s mind went back to the job with Lady Alice. To Hanzo’s impressive bow, his aim, his skill in wielding it both as offensive and defensive, long range and short range--even using it as leverage to throw his opponents across a room. The strength in his broad shoulders and thick arms. His strange metal boots. His ability to climb anything. He was lethal even without his magic. McCree thought back to all the  _ looks _ Hanzo would throw at him whenever he asked about certain things and his unwillingness to so much as acknowledge others: his family for instance.

McCree shrugged. “What’s there to tell? His name’s Hanzo and he comes and goes as he damn well pleases.”

“What else?”

“Ain’t nothin’ else.”

“Are you sure?” Moira’s eyes narrowed. 

McCree set his jaw. “Ain’t nothin’ else.” 

“I  _ will _ find something on him.” Olivia said, breaking the sudden tension. McCree glanced at her and doubted that very much. However, he had the wisdom not to say so.

* * *

 

McCree’s knees finally gave out on him when he got to his room. He sat down on the edge of his bed heavily, head falling forward into his awaiting hands. God, there was so much to process. Hanzo’s magic. Gabriel’s healing. At least one question had been answered tonight: McCree now knew why Hanzo didn’t wear sleeves. He’d wager good coin that if he did, the fabric would burn at the slightest use of his power. It had sounded so strange, like lightning but not, it had chittered. But it raised another question: did Hanzo’s magic have anything to do with his tattoo or where they separate things?

McCree forced himself to breath evenly. It was fine. Everything was okay because Hanzo had fixed it, just as McCree knew he would. He wouldn’t lose his father. He wouldn’t have to burn half the city down. Everything was going to be okay. The sun would rise and it would set and things would be fine. It took several long moments of deep breathing before McCree’s hands stopped trembling. 

And then...Knock, knock. 

McCree tensed, his mind spinning to all the weapons hidden around his room. But then the absence of windows in his room and the lack of the sound of his squeaking door made him relax again. 

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” He said. There was the soft ‘tap tap tapping’ of Hanzo’s boots on the wooden floorboards, then something rattled.

“I forgot to give you these.” Hanzo said. McCree looked up. Hanzo’s hair was down and damp--freshly bathed--wearing a grey shirt with  _ long sleeves _ , and loose pants. He had a yellow bottle in his hand that McCree could see through. Inside were pills. “Hydrocodone. It’ll ease your man’s pain. Have him take one every twelve hours.” McCree took them from Hanzo, slowly. As grateful as he was for his help earlier, no man ever gave  _ medicine _ for free, and he seriously doubted that he had anything Hanzo would want. McCree felt tears gather in his eyes as the stress of everything finally hit him.

Hanzo cupped the back of his neck and pulled him in until McCree could bury his face against Hanzo’s stomach. Something twisted in his stomach. 'Your man' as if McCree was spoken for.

“Gabriel. His names Gabriel..." _He's my father_ , McCree nearly said but that wasn't strictly true and he'd sworn to himself that he'd never lie to Hanzo. "I almost....I almost lost him.” McCree’s breath hitched, arms coming around Hanzo to grab fistfulls of his shirt. The fabric was soft and smelled clean. McCree didn’t know why that small detail stuck out when everything his wizard wore was higher quality than anything McCree had seen--and he’d seen a lot--but it did.

“But you didn’t.” Hanzo said. His voice was gentle and deep and soothing.

“Almost...almost....Knew you’d come....You always do.” McCree’s hands started shaking again. Hanzo’s grip on the back of his neck tightened. Grounding. McCree didn’t move for a long time and Hanzo held him through it all. He’d almost lost Gabriel. He’d been so damn close. But he hadn’t and his heart was having a hard time deciding if it should break or dance. “Thank you.” McCree said, voice breathy.

“Thank me when he is walking again.”

McCree’s attention was suddenly on Hanzo and nothing else. “He will, though, won’t he? His leg was so damn bad.” He couldn’t imagine what Gabriel would do if he couldn’t walk anymore. He wasn’t suited to desk work.

“He should, if he doesn’t try to rush the healing process and takes it slow. Build the muscle back up a little at a time.” 

McCree nodded. “Yeah...Yeah okay. I’ll make sure of it.” He’d tied that man to the bed if he had to and sleep next to him if it came to that. He looked up at Hanzo then and knew he looked like Hell when the skin around Hanzo’s eyes went soft. “Will you.....could you. Will you stay tonight?”

Hanzo smiled so gently McCree could feel it like an embrace. He pushed him away until McCree was laying down before crawling in after him.

“I cannot stay. When I lose concentration this...” Hanzo gestured to himself. He looked like he was trying to find the right word. “...spell breaks.”

He had already guessed that that was how Hanzo’s magic worked but it was nice to have the information confirmed by the horse himself.

“As long as ya can, then.” McCree begged, tugging and prodding Hanzo until he was laying with his head on McCree’s chest. The weight felt nice--reassuring and  _ real _ \--after everything, McCree needed  _ real _ like he needed air to breathe.

“As long as I can.” Hanzo said.


	23. For Want of Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragon Hanzo and surfer McCree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Must be the shortest one yet which I don't like but I ran out of time. I like the idea but I don't really have a story in mind for it so...*shrug*

The water current tugged and pushed him, making him sway much like the giant kelp that surrounded him. It was mesmerizing, watching the play of light through the water while the waves rolled over head, creating tubes of color--seeing something ancient from a new perspective. At first, it was calming, being pushed and pulled in a slow rhythm. Weightlessness without drifting away. It didn’t take long before that feeling of calm turned into a feeling of being impossibly small, surrounded by kelp yet knowing that there was far more out in the depths.

Hanzo had anchored himself with his tail wrapped around the base of several kelp stocks, feet tucked up against his stomach as he would when he flew, neck stretched towards the sun. Swimming was the closest to flight that Hanzo would allow himself and he didn’t deserve even this much. Not after what he’d done to Genji. His brother may have forgiven him but forgiving himself was another thing entirely. He didn’t allow himself to wear his scales unless he was in the ocean, even during the solstice when it physically hurt to keep the transformation away, he grit his teeth and drowned himself in alcohol. 

A dark shape cut across the surface above him, moving back and forth searchingly. Hanzo blew out a few bubbles through his nose before following after them. His bubbles broke the surface and his surfer paddled to them. Hanzo broke the surface and came face to face with McCree. The man was grinning fit to rival the sun, laying on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms.

“Howdy.” Hanzo laid his head on McCree’s surfboard as he held onto the edge, careful not to claw up the paint. “How’ve you been, beautiful?” McCree reached out and laid his hand on the bridge of Hanzo’s snout. Hanzo’s golden whisker wrapped itself around McCree’s wrist. His human was a strange one--almost drowning only to get back onto the waves within the week, paddling all the way out here just to visit the creature who’d saved him. Hanzo didn’t have the courage to shed his scales in front of McCree. For all intents and purposes, Hanzo was nothing more than a mythical creature come to life for him.

Hanzo let his tongue flick out to skate along the tip of McCree’s nose. He chuckled, deep in his chest, fingers flexing against Hanzo’s scales.

“That good, huh? Well, good. Would be a damn shame to have a bad day on a day like this. Find yerself a pretty girl, yet?” 

Hanzo snorted. 

McCree frowned with great exaggeration. “You’ll find her someday, partner, don’t you worry none.” Hanzo surged forward, bodily shoving McCree from his surfboard and dragging himself up to claim it as his own. McCree came up sputtering and laughing uproariously, coughing when his lungs tried to inhale air and exhale water at the same time. Hanzo crossed his wrists with deliberate slowness and lifted his head higher. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re a strong, independent fella who don’t need no belle.”

While that was true, Hanzo could only hope that one day he’d have the courage to try and hook himself an equally strong, independent, surfer.


	24. The Real Beyond The Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ever look at a Surrealist painting and go 'fuck, I wanna be there' ?

He knew damn well that what he called real wasn’t actually real. Knew that a person shouldn’t be able to walk into a mirror and end up on a beach with white sand or step into a volcanic tube lined with glittering gems. McCree’s real was real enough, no doubt about that, but it wasn’t the normal ‘real.’ Gabriel couldn’t do this. Genji and Hanzo couldn’t. Not even Lena could tread where he’d been. But, then again, none of his friends could’ve ever been called a Free Person. Sometime in their lives, they’d been bound by the boundaries they _thought_ were in place, and so bound themselves to the rules of their own minds. And a person’s mind was a hard thing to change.

McCree could remember being a boy, running after his mother’s brown tail as she took on the feathers of a roadrunner, of spending a summer as a crawdad, of being told to walk along the streets and imagine being someplace else--when he looked up, he was suddenly in a field surrounded by fireflies. He could remember the day his mother had given him Peacekeeper and taught him how to channel his Freedom into bullets. From that day forward, he never ran out.

But Freedom came with a price.

He could go anywhere he wanted to go.

 Do anything he wanted to do.

 And it was boring.

 McCree took a sip of whiskey from his flask and leaned against Hanzo’s back with a heavy sigh.

 “Are you alright?” Hanzo asked.

  _I’m Free and yet I want a cage. I’m Free but I have nowhere to go. I think I’m depressed._ McCree wanted to say but instead said, “Just thinkin’ about roadrunners.”

 “The character or the birds?”

 “The character is the bird but I meant the actual bird.” _Kinda_.

 “I see. What about them?”

 “....Nothin’.”

 “Hnnn.”

 McCree let the silence hold until he was halfway to the flask’s bottom.

 “Mama loved roadrunners. Said they were born to run but had enough grit to take on a rattler and then eat it.”

 “Did the venom not pose a problem?”

 “Nah. Great roadrunners can eat venomous snakes and scorpions.”  McCree had done it a few times himself after his mother died. For several years he’d lived as various animals and creatures that crawled and creeped. At least until he’d turned into an owl and smacked into Gabriel’s windshield. Then, he’d had boundaries made of his own broken bones and scrambled brain. It’d been terrifying. It’d been the best thing he’d felt since his mother had taught him how to be Free.

 He wondered if he could forget. If he could just let it go and stay with the man at his back, or if the urge to suddenly be _elsewhere_ would be to great a pull. What would happen if he let himself forget how but could still remember doing? What if he grew resentful of his team? Of his lover?

 “I can hear you think, cowboy.” Hanzo said as he reached around to put his hand on McCree’s hip.

“Think I’ll go away fer awhile. A day or two, tops.” McCree felt Hanzo nod. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d said such things and Hanzo understood enough to not ask questions--to just accept that McCree would leave and come back. That he would _always_ come back because being Free meant he could do whatever he wanted to do, and he’d long decided that he wanted to be right here next to his dragon.


	25. Treasure Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuation of the D & D verse.

“I want you to know that if we die down here,” McCree said, eyeing the obvious trap before him, “I will take it very personally.” The room was made of stone, the flat floor painstakingly put together like a giant jigsaw puzzle, hanging above them was a plethora of variously sized stalactites. Sitting to the side of the room was a piano.

“You are welcome to turn back at any time.” Hanzo said with a challenge in the set of his jaw.

“Don’t go putting words in my mouth. I didn’t say anything about backin’ out. Just not keen on dying today. Got things to do, y’know?” McCree’s tail flicked. Neither one of them brought a torch--they didn’t need one, but the cold of the cave was starting to sink through McCree’s leather coat. “Don’t suppose you know how to play the piano?”

Hanzo took out their map, carefully unfolded it and turned it around to look at the back. Along the top sat a long series of musical notes, stretching from one end of the map to the other.

“I do not.” He said. McCree let his head loll back against his shoulders until he was looking at the ceiling.

“Damn.”  

“It doesn’t matter.” Hanzo rolled the map back up. “We’ll think of something.” McCree smirked and lit a cigarillo and blew a smoke ring. The trap had just evolved into a puzzle. Together, they examined the room as thoroughly as they could and checked everything twice.

“Ever see a cave with stalactites but not stalagmites?” Hanzo asked.

“Nope.” McCree said. “You?”

“Never.” McCree crouched down to run his fingertips along the seams of two stone tiles. The seam was not air tight and the tile moved ever so slightly when McCree tried to wiggle the stone. He frowned and stood, suddenly feeling betrayed by the ground he stood on.

“Floors a fake.” He took off his hat to run his hand through his hair, digging his fingers into the skin around his horns.

“A pit trap using the cave’s stalagmites for naturally occurring stakes.” Hanzo said.

“That’d be my guess.” Hanzo had already made it to the piano but McCree joined him anyway. “What’d you find?”

“I believe the keys are connected to the floor. Press the wrong key and the stone gives out.” Hanzo took the knife from his boot and bent over the piano--using the blade to untwist the screws. A wood panel came free with little effort to revel the strings connected to the keys. Most of them were rigged. McCree stood aside while Hanzo got to work on the key strings. He wasn’t entirely sure what the Drow was doing but little by little, a hidden door in the wall opened, and the floor stayed in tact. 

The overwhelming stench of metal seeped through the door and made McCree gag, choking on smoke, and throwing him into a fit of harsh coughing. Hanzo put his hands over his nose.

“I think--” McCree broke off to cough. “Think we just found the treasure room. God _ damn _ !” 

“Indeed.” On the other side of the door, they found a long winding hallway, leading down, down, down but then up, up, up until it opened up into a room so vast that it was hard for their minds to truly fathom it. Gold coins, precious gems, and sparkling jewelry were stacked in  _ hills _ \--not mere piles. 

McCree whistled.

“Alright, I admit it.” He said and dug into his breast pocket, fishing out a chess piece. “You’re King Of The Moment.” he held out the King to Hanzo. He took it and then pulled McCree down to kiss him. 

“I look forward to whatever treasure you come up with to reclaim the King.”


	26. Shed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> moar dragon hanzo and surfer mccree

Hanzo forced himself to breath evenly, the bites on his neck and ribs stung more from the salt in the water than from how deep they were. His scales had protected him well enough from the shark’s teeth and, in retrospect, picking a fight with a creature built for the ocean wasn’t his best idea. But hindsight was always 20/20. His first mistake had been in thinking that oceanic animals had set territories--that they’d know to honor his set territories. 

The sand under him was hard packed but surprisingly comfortable to lay on. Like a carpeted floor. Half of his body was still in the water and the waves tugged at him gently, Hanzo tried to time his breathing with it. In, in, in, and out in a drawn out sigh. His lip curled in disgust at the feeling of salt in his mane and the grit of the sand sticking to his whiskers. Small tremors ran through him making his shoulders jerk and his tail twitch as he fought against the instinct to shed his scales and take a form that wasn’t injured. 

He could still hear the Elders ordering him to bring Genji to heel. Could still remember the taste of his brother’s blood as he bit down on his scales and broke them. He’d left Genji’s dragon with so many wounds that he’d never be able to wear his scales again--not without a very real risk of bleeding to death.

These wounds needed to close and so, Hanzo grit his teeth and stayed beached--ears straining for the sound of anyone approaching. With the sun at its zenith, his scales would want to reflect light and spark, his golden mane would shine, and his antlers could never be mistaken for driftwood. 

There was a sudden found of flapping wings and then a slight weight as a seagull landed on Hanzo’s  back. He opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by a flock. They talked to each other as they hunted for snails, clams, and the unlucky crabs. Another one decided to use his antler as a perch. Hanzo sighed heavily. A few of the gulls closest to his snout turned, feathers fluffed, and shouted at him as if he’d offended their mothers. He flicked a long whisker at them to make them scatter. 

Hanzo wasn’t sure how long he laid there but his thick mane had dried out and slowly, so slowly, the tremors stopped. Some seagulls left and some joined him, and some of the braver birds perched on him. One even decided to sit between his shoulder blades and take a nap. Hanzo’s eyes flicked from one bird to the next as he watched them, entertaining himself, when he caught sight of a human further down the beach. 

They were far enough away that Hanzo couldn’t tell gender nor hair color but they were sprinting towards him. Hanzo tensed, body coiling and ready to catapult himself into the water. But something stopped him and it wasn’t the birds. The set of the human’s shoulders was familiar. Hanzo stayed still and let them come closer.

It was McCree. He was running full tilt, holding something in one hand. Even from here, Hanzo could tell his face was paler than usual. Strange. The gulls startled, shouting and complaining, as they took to the air. Hanzo swiveled his ear towards McCree, he was cursing under his breath. 

“Shit, shit, shit. C’mon, beautiful, don’t do this to me.” The binoculars got tossed to the sand as McCree skidded to a stop beside him. Seeing the panic his eyes, Hanzo finally realized what he looked like. Lying half in the surf and half on the sand with seagulls on him: he looked dead. Hanzo snorted and flicked a whisker. Several emotions filtered through McCree eyes, so fast that Hanzo couldn’t identify them all but they finally settled on anger.

The brown of his eyes flared and then there was a hand grabbing at his antler. “Don’t  _ scare _ me like that, you son of a bitch! What’d you even do to yourself--take on a shark!?” McCree cut himself off and examined the wound low on Hanzo’s neck. “Goddamn, you actually did.” McCree was careful to keep his hands gentle as he examined each bite. When he was done, McCree swiped his hands through his hair and then pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily.

Hanzo’s neck was long enough that he was able to nudge McCree’s arm when he lifted his head. McCree ignored him. Hanzo snorted and nudged him again, then again. 

“Stop it. I’m trying to be mad at you. Pickin’ fights with sharks, laying around where anyone could see you with a half-decent pair of binoculars.” Hanzo let one of his whiskers wrap around McCree’s wrist. There was a small bit of guilt sitting in his gut but mostly exasperated amusement. Hanzo nudged his friend again. Finally, McCree put his hands on either side of Hanzo’s face. “Why’d you even pick a fight? Did Mr. Shark insult your good looks? Was that it?” 

_ No. _ Hanzo narrowed his eyes.  _ Mr. Shark was in my kelp _ . He flicked his tail.

“Oh,” McCree cooed. “You’re still pretty as a picture. Don’t worry, Beautiful.” Hanzo could  _ hear _ the capitol ‘B’ and had to wonder when the pet name had turned into an actual name.

* * *

 

Hanzo sat on the edge of his bed with his phone staring up at him. The blinking cursor seemed to be mocking him with it’s unwillingness to move. 

‘ _ We need to talk.’ _ Had a horrible stigma for being the precursor to break-up texts. That wasn’t what this was.

‘ _ I need to tell you something.’ _ Didn’t sound right, either. Hanzo groaned and dug his knuckles into his eye. Why was this so hard? 

‘ _ Can you meet me on the beach tonight?’ _ Hanzo hit ‘send’ before he could back out. He didn’t have to wait long, McCree responded within the minute.

‘ _ Sure can darlin’  _

* * *

 

Hanzo forced himself to sit still, tugging his paws under himself. He felt like a boy being forced to sit on his hands. Fresh scales were forming under the cracked ones and pushing up to take their place, cutting off circulation and making every wound itch terribly. Hanzo grit his teeth and bore it with ill humor. Blood was rushing through his ears, pinned back as they were with mounting nerves. An itch suddenly flared with such intensity it hurt. Hanzo whipped around, neck arching to nibble at the edge of the bite on his hip. One of the scales had come up further than the others--just far enough that Hanzo was able to worry at it with his tongue like a loose tooth.

Sand shifted to his left. He turned and found McCree walking towards him, dressed in a flannel and jeans. 

“Hey, there, Beautiful. You meetin’ your special someone, too?” He smiled, hand coming up to touch him. For the first time since they’d met, Hanzo shied away. McCree frowned and, slowly, let his hand drop to his side. “What’s wrong?” 

Hanzo could feel his heart trying to beat out of his chest. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. Hanzo swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably. How was this a good idea? It wasn’t. 

“Hey,” McCree’s voice was still gentle but there was a firmness to it. Hanzo let his eyes drop to the sand. “What are you doing out here?” Hanzo took a deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes. With gritted teeth and his heart in his throat, he shed his scales. Hesitantly, Hanzo opened his eyes. McCree’s face was slack, eyebrows almost in his hairline. For several seconds, the only sound between them was the waves kissing the shore.

“Jesse?” Hanzo asked. McCree visibly gathered himself but then he was moving with purpose. His hands came up to frame Hanzo’s face, exactly as he had hundreds of times before, thumb brushing against Hanzo’s sharp cheekbone.

“I knew I recognized those eyes.”


	27. Ready, Set, Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree has to make a living somehow and Doll's gotta eat.

The thermostat on his phone said that it was only 50 degrees but with Doll laying on his back like a heated blanket from Hell, he didn’t feel a thing. The comm in his ear was an invention he’d never thought he’d live to see--never thought would be within the realm of possibility--but here he was; perched atop a rooftop with a high-powered sniper’s rifle cradled to his shoulder. McCree glanced over his shoulder. The dead bodyguard looked like a mummy: skin grey and shrink wrapped to the skull, lips shriveled back to expose teeth. Doll licked her chops and settled more comfortably against McCree. 

“Team One, how’s it look?” Sacha asked, voice laced with a soft Russian accent. McCree turned back to the scope. Several streets away, the targets were deep in a meeting that’d been set up in a fancy hotel. 

“They’re still talking shop.” Yuki said. McCree reached over to the tablet he had propped up against his hat to scroll through the information again. Big time syndicate with a penchant for drug running, selling illegal weapons, and human trafficking. The usual. McCree sighed. When had such atrocities started becoming ‘normal?’ Not even Deadlock had gone into the business of captured flesh. It was sick. 

“Team two?”

“Got the streets covered. No where for these sorry sons of bitches to run.” Curtis said. 

“Alright. Yuki, take the shot when you’re ready--and don’t fucking miss. McCree, get ready for a follow up shot.” Sacha said. McCree adjusted, bringing his crosshairs to sit against the target’s chest. The head was to small of a target, especially for someone who preferred to be on the ground instead of sitting pretty in a sniper’s nest. 

A shot rang out and their target--a man settled comfortably in his early 50’s, wearing a white suite--didn’t die. The vase of flowers next to his elbow exploded. Everyone in the hotel room dove for cover, reaching for their own weapons, one person was smart enough to turn the lights off.

“Shit! Sorry, I had something in my eye.” Yuki snarled.

“It’s called a scope, ma’am.” McCree said, accent deliberately thick with his Old Western drawling twang; just to piss her off. “Step right up.” He mumbled under his breath. The world around him bled of color, sound going distorted and far away--unimportant--as the souls of everyone in the hotel bloomed to life like beads of morning dew on blades of grass. Each one was tinged red with splotches of black while their original colors drowned and choked just beneath the surface: corruption. 

McCree lined up again and squeezed the trigger almost casually. Their target dropped. He squeezed five more times and five more corpses hit the floor. Color came back slowly, sound suddenly bombarded him so harshly he grit his teeth against it and squeezed his eyes shut as pain stabbed him behind the eyeballs.

Sacha was shouting commands at Team Three. The dark windows lit up with flashes of gun fire as Team Three rushed the room. From four buildings over, Yuki took what shots she could. Doll whined at the smell of blood, shifting with barely contained energy and digging sharp elbows into McCree’s spine. His comm unit was alive with the sounds of gunfire and men screaming while his other ear picked up on the sound of tires squealing and the echoing ‘pop, pop, pop’ as the syndicate’s reinforcements were ordered into the fray--only to be met with Team Two.

McCree tore the comm out of his abused ear and ducked his head until his forehead met with the concrete of the roof. The pain was sharper than the other times he’d used Deadeye and he had to wonder if it was the gun’s fault. Too many rounds? No, he’d shot six times. It wasn’t the rounds. The scope? Maybe. It made the most sense. A hyper focused awareness of things being amplified by something that, by all rights, wasn’t compatible with it.

Doll started barking and the sound couldn’t possibly be mistaken for anything of this world; deep and primal as it was. If McCree listened close enough, he could’ve sworn that he could hear a feminine voice underneath it. The heat of her was steadily rising: firing up. 

“Run them down.” McCree growled, hands coming up to cover his ears. The noise was making the pain build and he wasn’t sure how much more he could handle. Doll’s weight was suddenly gone as she jumped off the roof. 

Ignoring the shouting and gun fire, McCree grabbed his hat and the tablet, struggling to his feet, using the rifle for a crutch. As he stumbled towards the emergency stairs, McCree dropped the rifle into its rightful owner’s lap as he passed.

* * *

 

It hurt to move and even the smallest sound made his ears ring a sharp ‘C’ tone. McCree winced and pulled the blanket up to his chin. The cold porcelain of the tub was a soothing line running along his back and cradling his head. If he looked, he’d be able to see Doll where she was sprawled across the bed like a pampered princess, forked tongue lolling out of her mouth. The T.V. was on to the news, volume turned down low. 

Twenty dead. Six bodies found in a hotel room, thirteen on the streets and one on a rooftop.

Nine of them had been drained dry.


	28. Faster Than Falling Asleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate how short this one is!!! I'm so sorry. I'll try my best to get a longer one tomorrow but I can't make any promises.

Hanzo couldn’t feel much through the numbing adrenaline and the floating feeling of blood loss but he knew that it was hard to breathe--that something was making his lizard brain writhe and rage that something was _wrong_.

Logically, he knew this must be what encroaching death felt like but some distant part of his mind simply wouldn’t accept that this could very well be the end. That small part of him made his eyes track along the room, looking for possible weapons--anything that would let him live just a minute longer. Anything that would let him see another sunrise. Hanzo wasn’t at peace but it was peaceful. He couldn’t hear anything anymore, not the fire fight, not the shouting, nothing.

Hanzo turned his head to look at the broken skylight. Through the shattered glass and the towering walls of the surrounding buildings, he could see the moon: fat and full. Beautiful. A job gone wrong wasn’t the most dignified way to die but, then again, Hanzo had learned long ago that death did not discriminate nor did it care for what sort of ending it handed out.

Hanzo was not at peace. He had things he still needed to do but, above all, if he died then who would look after Genji? Who would keep him out of trouble? Hanzo grit his teeth and tried to press down harder but he didn’t have anymore strength in his arm and his hand was left to simply lay against the gaping wound in his gut. He hadn’t expected to run across a Jagdkommando--a three bladed knife that had gone in easy as anything. The twisted blade served no other purpose but to kill and it did the job ugly: forcing their victims to bleed to death. He should've seen it coming, should've been stronger--faster.

Hanzo floated in a bubble of unwanted peace and warmth that was strangely soothing. It was peaceful.

He blinked, and suddenly he was standing in a train car.

The door slid shut behind him on its own.


	29. Coming Home

They used to shout his name; cheer for him, call to him on the streets, women would say his name with a blush and a giggle.

Now they whispered it.

From the corner of his eye, Hanzo kept track of the wolves as they kept pace with him. Twin spirits--neither living nor dead--but somewhere in between. Sometimes they were a solid mass of fur and heavy paws. Other times they drifted along as condensed bodies of mist, with only the vaguest shape of a snout, a body, a tail.

Hanzo couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t with him but he knew such a time did exist. Knew there must have been a time in his long history when his hair wasn’t white nor his eyes gold.

He hopped down into the dry riverbed, booted feet thudding onto packed dirt and followed the meandering twists and turns until he found McCree. Hanzo could never understand why he liked these ancient waterways. The coyote wore the skin of a man, lounging back against the bank, long legs crossed at the knees with his hands tucked behind his head as a pillow.

“I spy with my little ears,” McCree said. “The guardian of this here forest.”

“Greetings McCree.” Hanzo lowered himself to sit next to him. “I trust you’ve been well.”

From under the brim of his hat, Hanzo could see McCree smile.

“There he goes, talkin’ like its still 500 B.C.”

“1685. And you,” Hanzo flicked McCree’s nose. “Are no better.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re both old. We’re both bitter ‘bout it, and we’re both stuck in our own ways.” McCree sat up, tipping his hat back off his eyes. “I got another riddle for ya. ‘Tired of jail; he walks out’.”

“Hmm. How long do you intend to stay this time?”

“I dunno. Maybe a month, maybe more. Why?”

“I’ll need your help this coming monsoon season. Part of the mountain sits on loose soil and I would prefer to keep the mountain on the mountain rather than in the city below.”  

“Gotcha. So you want me to dry it out some, I can do that. It’ll cost ya though.” Hanzo tried not to smile. It was easy to slip back into this easy banter, even after near nine years of being apart. 

“We shall see, cowman.” He said. McCree sighed deeply, shoulders lifting and falling dramatically.

“Hanzo, darlin’, we’ve gone over this. It’s ‘cow _ boy _ ’.”

Hanzo let his eyes rake over McCree, down his broad chest, his stomach, and past his belt buckle to linger just beneath it. Then his eyes flicked back up to McCree’s face.

“If you say so.” Hanzo smirked. McCree froze, mouth agape, before he smacked Hanzo with his hat.

* * *

 

McCree and Hanzo stood on the mountain soaked to the skin from the rain. McCree’s eyes were closed, heat radiating off him in huge waves as he worked to keep the ground dry. Hanzo kept his hand on his back incase he stumbled.

He didn’t. He never did but it helped ease Hanzo’s mind.

They stood there for the duration of the rainy season; breathing in deep and rooting themselves into the land, feeding off its energy. When it was over, McCree slumped back against Hanzo like his strings had been abruptly cut.

“Are you alright?” Hanzo asked, burying his nose in McCree’s neck to check for himself. The pulse beating under his lips was fast but not hard. If he was in pain, McCree’s scent gave nothing away. All Hanzo could smell was the forest, the desert, tobacco, and something uniquely Jesse McCree.

“”M fine.” McCree’s voice was slow and slurred slightly, as if he’d just woken up. Turning his head, McCree nuzzled against Hanzo’s jaw. “Come home with me.”

“Is that your price?” Hanzo asked, dread slowly crept up his spine. If it was then he’d go without question--because he’d have to. And the horrible part was that he wanted to...just not like this. He’d follow this Creature of the Desert to the ends of the world if he asked.

“Naw, that’d cheapen it.” McCree said. After a moment he pressed a kiss to Hanzo’s cheek, lips warm and dry, not a drop of rain water on him. “That’s my price. So, what’d ya say?”

Hanzo kissed McCree’s nose. “Gladly.” 


	30. Float

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because exactly one person wanted these scenes

The noise of the bar was deafening, speakers turned up high to blast music with heavy beat drops that Hanzo could feel vibrate in his chest. He’d have to shout if he wanted to be heard. But as Genji had said:  _ “We’re not here to talk. We’re here to get drunk--we’ll yell and cry on each others shoulders after.”  _ After, when they’d be too drunk to be embarrassed or ashamed for crying, when they’d be to drunk to censor themselves--to get everything out as they  _ meant _ to get it out. Hanzo had an internal bet with himself that somewhere between the shouting and the yelling, there would be a good amount of fighting.

Eight years was a very big gap to try to leap and condense into one night.

Around them, summer tourists and locals alike were pressed against each other as they vied for a spot at the bar or a place on the dance floor. Hanzo couldn’t drag his eyes off Genji’s back; he moved through the crowd with all the grace of a sparrow in flight--which was to say none at all. He darted and dove between moving bodies, slipping through the gaps and sometimes looping back out to weave back in, getting closer and closer to the bar with each calculated move. For all the things that had changed, this, at least, had not.

It was hard to believe that after eight years Genji had tracked him down--not to take his scales as Hanzo had done to him--but to try and mend this rift that had grown between them like a cancer. Hanzo crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. He didn’t deserve such a gift but he owed Genji much and, for him, he’d try to give him this.

Hanzo watched as Genji flirted with the young woman behind the bar as he ordered their drinks. A sharp pang of exasperated fondness stabbed Hanzo in the sternum. It seemed even Genji’s silver tongue hadn’t tarnished or turned to lead. The woman made their drinks slowly, trying to keep him there as long as she could.

Finally, Genji managed to escape with a grin and a wink, zigzagging his way back to Hanzo’s side. When he made it, dark eyes swept along Hanzo’s body, taking in his posture. Genji sighed heavily and handed him a tall glass.

“Let’s hear it, then.” Genji said, suddenly defensive. Hanzo blinked, confused, but then it clicked. All the times the Elders had sent Hanzo after Genji, dragging him out of clubs and house parties with seething remarks on his tongue. Hanzo took a giant mouthful of beer to drown the encroaching guilt and shame.

“I was under the impression we’re here to drink, not to talk.” Hanzo said.

“Yell later?” Genji raised an eyebrow.

“Yell later.” Hanzo waited for Genji to be mid-swallow before speaking again. “It’s good to see you haven't changed.” Genji choked, sputtering and coughing, hacking up a long as he held his beer away from himself and tried to get a solid breath in.

“Bastard!” Genji managed to wheeze. “You did that on purpose!”

“Of course I did.” Hanzo drank as he watched Genji get his breathing under control, letting the sounds of the crowd wash over him as white noise. 

“...Did you mean it?” There was a strange glint to Genji’s eyes as he stared at Hanzo, dark gaze never once wavering. Of course he’d meant it. How could he not? It had been a special type of Hell, being forced to try and change Genji through disappointment and heated arguments. Thinking on it now threatened to choke Hanzo.

“We’re here to drink.” He said, taking a healthy pull pointedly. Genji smiled and followed his brother’s lead. The music changed, the crowd cheered and the dancers surged with renewed energy. They stayed by the wall and drank, when their glasses were empty, Genji bought more. 

One became two became three and then on the fourth Genji came back with a cowboy in tow. Hanzo’s breath caught in his chest, eyes gone wide, heart skipping a fearful beat. Who would have thought his surfer could pull off hat, chaps and spurs? His eyes flicked down to his tattoo, a spitting image of his own scales, bared by his short sleeves and cursed himself for a fool. Hanzo ducked his head, hiding behind his hair as he prayed to whatever powers that be that McCree was to far gone to connect the dots--small and far between as they were.

“Brother! Look what I have found!” Genji thrust Hanzo’s beer at him, forcing him to take it or let it hit the ground. Three beers was not enough to get them drunk but it was enough to make them comfortably buzzed--loose. McCree seemed deeply amused, grin easy and so genuine it reached his eyes. Hanzo suddenly found the liquid under his nose to be very interesting. 

“A cowboy.” Hanzo said, trying to keep his voice from wavering, willing the rising heat in his face to go away.

McCree chuckled. “I take it you boys don’t got cowboys where you’re from.”

“Certainly none as handsome.” Genji purred, leaning his weight into McCree’s side. Hanzo raised his glass to his lips and gave an honest effort at drowning himself in libations. 

* * *

 

Three days later Hanzo found himself in the sea, tail wrapped around several pieces of kelp, head angled towards the surface as the current pushed and pulled him in its soothing rhythm. The right side of his face ached from where Genji had landed a mean left hook. His nose felt tender and bruised from being thrown into the wall. Hanzo made a noise of mild discomfort. He’d been partly correct in assuming they’d resort to fighting but he’d been wrong that they’d get to the crying only after. Turned out a person could cry big, ugly tears with gasping sobs and snot leaking from their nose while throwing punches and kicks with lethal precision.

As a human, he had a very impressive black eye. But as a dragon, the scales under his eye were merely dulled. 

When the sun was at its zenith, McCree’s silhouette wove back and forth as he searched for Hanzo’s bubbles. For a second, he contemplated on letting McCree search until he gave up and paddled back to shore or caught a wave back, whichever came first. Hanzo closed his eyes and wished he was stronger. He blew a few bubbles, following them up after a moment’s hesitation. 

McCree’s face lit up at the sight of him, as it always did, and Hanzo had to wonder if it was because of what he was or if McCree was, quite simply, happy to see him. He chose to believe the later until proven otherwise.

“Howdy, beautiful!” McCree pushed himself up to sit astride his board, patting the nose in invitation. “Didn’t manage to catch ya the other day. Of course, can’t always expect ya to be home, now can I?” Hanzo snorted and laid his head down between McCree’s knees, clawed paws coming up to anchor himself to the board. When he leaned forward to lay his hand against the bridge of Hanzo’s nose, he lifted his head to give his palm--salty and wet with seawater--a quick flick of his tongue. McCree smiled at him and Hanzo swore he’d never seen anything more devastatingly beautiful. It almost hurt to look at.

“You’ll never guess what happened to me the other day. I met the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on, I swear. He was absolutely gorgeous. He had--he was--okay, confession time but I got a thing for guys that are shorter than me. Don’t ask why. I don’t know.” McCree dragged his hand through his hair. Hanzo let his ears swivel forward, making McCree chuckle and reach up to rub his thumb along the base. “Goddamn, beautiful, he had the most amazing eyes, I tell ya. Now, granted, it was kinda hard to see, bars don’t have the best of lighting, but I’m pretty sure they were this deep brown.”

Hanzo’s heart sank down to his feet. Unless McCree had been in a bar more than once in the three days since he’d last paid his draconic friend a visit, then there was only one person he could be talking about.

“Was a damn shame he was with someone. If he’d been alone I think I would’ve tried to take him home with me.”

Hanzo closed his eyes and tried not to wish death upon his brother.

It was hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I missed day 1, I may or may not give you a chapter Nov. 1st to make up for it


End file.
